I      L.EY 


• 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 


OF  CALIF.   LIBRABY,   LOS  AKGELES 


Eleanor 


Turn  About  Eleanor 


ETHEL  M.  KELLEY 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

F.   GRAHAM   COOTES 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1917 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


patss  or 

BBAUNWOHTH    *    CO. 

BOOK    MANUFACTURER* 

BROOKLYN.     N.     Y 


TO  MY  MOTHER 


2130620 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I  ENTER  ELEANOR 1 

II  THE  COOPERATIVE  PARENTS 14 

III  THE  EXPERIMENT  BEGINS 27 

IV  PETER  ELUCIDATES 40 

V  ELEANOR  ENJOYS  HERSELF  IN  HER  OWN  WAY    .  48 

VI  JIMMIE  BECOMES  A  PARENT 63 

VII  ONE  DESCENT  INTO  BOHEMIA 72 

VIII  THE  TEN  HUTCHINSONS 84 

IX  PETER        101 

X  THE  OMNISCIENT  Focus 113 

XI  GERTRUDE  HAS  TROUBLE  WITH  HER  BEHAVIOR    .  124 

XII  MADAM  BOLLING 138 

XIII  BROOK  AND  RIVER 158 

XIV  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 167 

XV  GROWING  UP 181 

XVI  MARGARET  LOUISA'S  BIRTHRIGHT 195 

XVII  A  REAL  Kiss 203 

XVIII  BEULAH'S  PROBLEM 219 

XIX  MOSTLY  UNCLE  PETER 234 

XX  THE  MAKINGS  OF  A  TRIPLE  WEDDING  ....  251 

XXI  ELEANOR  HEARS  THE  NEWS 261 

XXII  THE  SEARCH 271 

XXIII  THE  YOUNG  NURSE 281 

XXIV  CHRISTMAS  AGAIN 292 

XXV  THE  LOVER  304 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 


Turn  About  Eleanor 

CHAPTER  I 
ENTER  ELEANOR 

A  CHILD  in  a  faded  tam-o'-shanter  that  had 
once  been  baby  blue,  and  a  shoddy  coat  of  a 
glaring,  unpropitious  newness,  was  sitting  uncom- 
fortably on  the  edge  of  a  hansom  seat,  and  gazing 
soberly  out  at  the  traffic  of  Fifth  Avenue. 

The  young  man  beside  her,  a  blond,  sleek,  nar- 
row-headed youth  in  eye-glasses,  was  literally 
making  conversation  with  her.  That  is,  he  was 
engaged  in  a  palpable  effort  to  make  conversation — 
to  manufacture  out  of  the  thin  crisp  air  of  that 
November  morning  and  the  random  impressions 
of  their  progress  up  the  Avenue,  something  with  a 
general  resemblance  to  tete-a-tete  dialogue  as  he 
understood  it.  He  was  succeeding  only  indiffer- 
ently. 

"See,  Eleanor,"  he  pointed  brightly  with  his 
stick  to  the  flower  shop  they  were  passing,  "see 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

that  building  with  the  red  roof,  and  all  those 
window  boxes.  Don't  you  think  those  little  trees 
in  pots  outside  look  like  Christmas  trees?  Some- 
times when  your  Aunts  Beulah  and  Margaret 
and  Gertrude,  whom  you  haven't  met  yet — though 
you  are  on  your  way  to  meet  them,  you  know — 
sometimes  when  they  have  been  very  good,  almost 
good  enough  to  deserve  it,  I  stop  by  that  little 
flower  shop  and  buy  a  chaste  half  dozen  of  gar- 
denias and  their  accessories,  and  divide  them  among 
the  three." 

"Do  you?"  the  child  asked,  without  wistfulness. 
She  was  a  good  child,  David  Boiling  decided, — a 
sporting  child,  willing  evidently  to  play  when  it 
was  her  turn,  even  when  she  didn't  understand  the 
game  at  all.  It  was  certainly  a  new  kind  of  game 
that  she  would  be  so  soon  expected  to  play  her  part 
in, — a  rather  serious  kind  of  game,  if  you  chose  to 
look  at  it  that  way. 

David  himself  hardly  knew  how  to  look  at  it. 
He  was  naturally  a  conservative  young  man,  who 
had  been  brought  up  by  his  mother  to  behave  as 
simply  as  possible  on  all  occasions,  and  to  avoid 
the  conspicuous  as  tacitly  and  tactfully  as  one 
avoids  a  new  disease  germ.  His  native  point  of 


ENTER  ELEANOR 

view,  however,  had  been  somewhat  deflected  by 
his  associations.  His  intimate  circle  consisted  of 
a  set  of  people  who  indorsed  his  mother's  deca- 
logue only  under  protest,  and  with  the  most  strin- 
gent reservations.  That  is,  they  were  young  and 
healthy,  and  somewhat  overcharged  with  animal 
spirits,  and  their  reactions  were  all  very  intense 
and  emphatic. 

He  was  trying  at  this  instant  to  look  rather 
more  as  if  he  were  likely  to  meet  one  of  his  own 
friends  than  one  of  his  mother's.  His  mother's 
friends  would  not  have  understood  his  personal 
chaperonage  of  the  shabby  little  girl  at  his  elbow. 
Her  hair  was  not  even  properly  brushed.  It  looked 
frazzled  and  tangled;  and  at  the  corner  of  one  of 
her  big  blue  eyes,  streaking  diagonally  across  the 
pallor  in  which  it  was  set,  was  a  line  of  dirt, — a 
tear  mark,  it  might  have  been,  though  that  didn't 
make  the  general  effect  any  less  untidy,  David 
thought;  only  a  trifle  more  uncomfortably  pathetic. 
She  was  a  nice  little  girl,  that  fact  was  becoming 
more  and  more  apparent  to  David,  but  any  friend 
of  his  mother's  would  have  wondered,  and  ex- 
pressed him  or  herself  as  wondering,  why  in  the 
name  of  all  sensitiveness  he  had  not  taken  a  taxi- 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

cab,  or  at  least  something  in  the  nature  of  a  closed 
vehicle,  if  he  felt  himself  bound  to  deliver  in  per- 
son this  curious  little  stranger  to  whatever  myste- 
rious destination  she  was  for. 

"I  thought  you'd  like  a  hansom,  Eleanor,  better 
than  a  taxi-cab,  because  you  can  see  more.  You've 
never  been  in  this  part  of  New  York  before,  I 
understand." 

"No,  sir." 

"You  came  up  from  Colhassett  last  Saturday, 
didn't  you?  Mrs.  O'Farrel  wrote  to  your  grand- 
mother to  send  you  on  to  us,  and  you  took  the 
Saturday  night  boat  from  Fall  River." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Did  you  travel  alone,  Eleanor?" 

"A  friend  of  Grandpa's  came  up  on  the  train 
with  me,  and  left  me  on  the  vessel.  He  told  the 
colored  lady  and  gentleman  to  see  if  I  was  all 
right, — Mr.  Porter  and  Mrs.  Steward." 

"And  were  you  all  right?"  David's  eyes  twinkled. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Not  sea  sick,  nor  homesick?" 

The  child's  fine-featured  face  quivered  for  a 
second,  then  set  again  into  impassive  stoic  lines, 
and  left  David  wondering  whether  he  had  wit- 


ENTER  ELEANOR 

nessed  a  vibration  of  real  emotion,  or  the  spasmodic 
twitching  of  the  muscles  that  is  so  characteristic  of 
the  rural  public  school. 

"I  wasn't  sea  sick." 

"Tell  me  about  your  grandparents,  Eleanor." 
Then  as  she  did  not  respond,  he  repeated  a  little 
sharply,  ".Tell  me  about  your  grandparents,  won't 
you?" 

The  child  still  hesitated.  David  bowed  to  the  wife 
of  a  Standard  Oil  director  in  a  passing  limousine, 
and  one  of  the  season's  prettiest  debutantes,  who  was 
walking ;  and  because  he  was  only  twenty-four,  and 
his  mother  was  very,  very  ambitious  for  him,  he 
wondered  if  the  tear  smudge  on  the  face  of  his  com- 
panion had  been  evident  from  the  sidewalk,  and 
decided  that  it  must  have  been. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  tell,"  the  child  said  at  last, 
"I  don't  know  what  you  want  me  to  say." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  say  anything  in  particular, 
just  in  general,  you  know." 

David  stuck.  The  violet  eyes  were  widening  with 
misery,  there  was  no  doubt  about  it.  "Game,  clean 
through,"  he  said  to  himself.  Aloud  he  continued. 
"Well,  you  know,  Eleanor. — Never  say  'Well,'  if 
you  can  possibly  avoid  it,  because  it's  a  flagrant 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

Americanism,  and  when  you  travel  in  foreign  parts 
you're  sure  to  regret  it, — well,  you  know,  if  you  are 
to  be  in  a  measure  my  ward — and  you  are,  my  dear, 
as  well  as  the  ward  of  your  Aunts  Beulah  and  Mar- 
garet and  Gertrude,  and  your  Uncles  Jimmie  and 
Peter — I  ought  to  begin  by  knowing  a  little  some- 
thing of  your  antecedents.  That  is  why  I  suggested 
that  you  tell  me  about  your  grandparents.  I  don't 
care  what  you  tell  me,  but  I  think  it  would  be  very 
suitable  for  you  to  tell  me  something.  Are  they 
native  Cape  Codders  ?  I'm  a  New  Englander  myself, 
you  know,  so  you  may  be  perfectly  frank  with  me." 

"They're  not  summer  folks,"  the  child  said.  "They 
just  live  in  Colhassett  all  the  year  round.  They  live 
in  a  big  white  house  on  the  depot  road,  but  they're 
so  old  now,  they  can't  keep  it  up.  If  it  was  painted 
it  would  be  a  real  pretty  house." 

"Your  grandparents  are  not  very  well  off  then?" 

The  child  colored.  "They've  got  lots  of  things," 
she  said,  "that  Grandfather  brought  home  when  he 
went  to  sea,  but  it  was  Uncle  Amos  that  sent  them 
the  money  they  lived  on.  When  he  died  they  didn't 
have  any." 

"How  long  has  he  been  dead?" 

"Two  years  ago  Christmas." 


ENTER  ELEANOR 

"You  must  have  had  some  money  since  then/* 
"Not  since  Uncle  Amos  died,  except  for  the  renli 
of  the  barn,  and  the  pasture  land,  and  a  few  things 
like  that." 

"You  must  have  had  money  put  away." 
"No,"  the  little  girl  answered.  "We  didn't.  We 
didn't  have  any  money,  except  what  came  in  the  way 
I  said.  We  sold  some  old-fashioned  dishes,  and  a 
little  bit  of  cranberry  bog  for  twenty-five  dollars. 
We  didn't  have  any  other  money." 

"But  you  must  have  had  something  to  live  on. 
You  can't  make  bricks  without  straw,  or  grow  little 
girls  up  without  nourishing  food  in  their  tummies." 
He  caught  an  unexpected  flicker  of  an  eyelash,  and 
realized  for  the  first  time  that  the  child  was  acutely 
aware  of  every  word  he  was  saying,  that  even  his 
use  of  English  was  registering  a  poignant  impression 
on  her  consciousness.  The  thought  strangely  em- 
barrassed him.  "We  say  tummies  in  New  York, 
Eleanor,"  he  explained  hastily.  "It's  done  here. 
The  New  England  stomick,  however,  is  almost  en- 
tirely obsolete.  You'll  really  get  on  better  in  the 
circles  to  which  you  are  so  soon  to  be  accustomed  if 
you  refer  to  it  in  my  own  simple  fashion; — but  to 
return  to  our  muttons,  Eleanor,  which  is  French  for 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

getting  down  to  cases,  again,  you  must  have  had 
something  to  live  on  after  your  uncle  died.  You  are 
alive  now.  That  would  almost  seem  to  prove  my 
contention." 

"We  didn't  have  any  money,  but  what  I  earned." 

"But — what  you  earned.  What  do  you  mean, 
Eleanor?" 

The  child's  face  turned  crimson,  then  white  again. 
This  time  there  was  no  mistaking  the  wave  of  sensi- 
tive emotion  that  swept  over  it. 

"I  worked  out,"  she  said.  "I  made  a  dollar  and  a 
half  a  week  running  errands,  and  taking  care  of  a 
sick  lady  vacations,  and  nights  after  school. 
Grandma  had  that  shock,  and  Grandpa's  back 
troubled  him.  He  tried  to  get  work  but  he  couldn't. 
He  did  all  he  could  taking  care  of  Grandma,  and 
tending  the  garden.  They  hated  to  have  me  work 
out,  but  there  was  nobody  else  to." 

"A  family  of  three  can't  live  on  a  dollar  and  a 
half  a  week." 

"Yes,  sir,  they  can,  if  they  manage." 

"Where  were  your  neighbors  all  this  time, 
Eleanor  ?  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  the  good, 
kindly  people  of  Cape  Cod  would  have  stood  by  and 

8 


ENTER  ELEANOR 

let  a  little  girl  like  you  support  a  family  alone  and 
unaided.  It's  preposterous." 

"The  neighbors  didn't  know.  They  thought  Uncle 
Amos  left  us  something.  Lots  of  Cape  Cod  children 
work  out.  They  thought  that  I  did  it  because  I 
wanted  to." 

"I  see,"  said  David  gravely. 

The  wheel  of  their  cab  became  entangled  in  that 
of  a  smart  delivery  wagon.  He  watched  it  thought- 
fully. Then  he  took  off  his  glasses,  and  polished 
them. 

"Through  a  glass  darkly,"  he  explained  a  little 
thickly.  He  was  really  a  very  young  young  man, 
and  once  below  the  surface  of  what  he  was  pleased 
to  believe  a  very  worldly  and  cynical  manner,  he  had 
a  profound  depth  of  tenderness  and  human 
sympathy. 

Then  as  they  jogged  on  through  the  Fifty-ninth 
Street  end  of  the  Park,  looking  strangely  seared  and 
bereft  from  the  first  blight  of  the  frost,  he  turned  to 
her  again.  This  time  his  tone  was  as  serious  as 
her  own. 

"Why  did  you  stop  working  out,  Eleanor?"  he 
asked. 


"The  lady  I  was  tending  died.  There  wasn't  no- 
body else  who  wanted  me.  Mrs.  O'Farrel  was  a 
relation  of  hers,  and  when  she  came  to  the  funeral, 
I  told  her  that  I  wanted  to  get  work  in  New  York 
if  I  could, — and  then  last  week  she  wrote  me  that 
the  best  she  could  do  was  to  get  me  this  place  to  be 
adopted,  and  so — I  came." 

"But  your  grandparents?"  David  asked,  and  re- 
alized almost  as  he  spoke  that  he  had  his  finger  on 
the  spring  of  the  tragedy. 

"They  had  to  take  help  from  the  town." 

The  child  made  a  brave  struggle  with  her  tears, 
and  David  looked  away  quickly.  He  knew  some- 
thing of  the  temper  of  the  steel  of  the  New  England 
nature;  the  fierce  and  terrible  pride  that  is  bred  in 
the  bone  of  the  race.  He  knew  that  the  child  before 
him  had  tasted  of  the  bitter  waters  of  humiliation  in 
seeing  her  kindred  "helped"  by  the  town.  "Going 
out  to  work,"  he  understood,  had  brought  the  family 
pride  low,  but  taking  help  from  the  town  had  leveled 
it  to  the  dust. 

"There  is,  you  know,  a  small  salary  that  goes  with 
this  being  adopted  business,"  he  remarked  casually 
a  few  seconds  later.  "Your  Aunts  Gertrude  and 
Beulah  and  Margaret,  and  your  three  stalwart  uncles 

10 


ENTER  ELEANOR 

aforesaid,  are  not  the  kind  of  people  who  have  been 
brought  up  to  expect  something  for  nothing.  They 
don't  expect  to  adopt  a  perfectly  good  orphan  with- 
out money  and  without  price,  merely  for  the  privi- 
lege of  experimentation.  No,  indeed,  an  orphan  in 
good  standing  of  the  best  New  England  extraction 
ought  to  exact  for  her  services  a  salary  of  at  least 
fifteen  dollars  a  month.  I  wouldn't  consent  to  take 
a  cent  less,  Eleanor." 

"Wouldn't  you  ?"  the  child  asked  uncertainly.  She 
sat  suddenly  erect,  as  if  an  actual  burden  had  been 
dropped  from  her  shoulders.  Her  eyes  were  not 
violet,  David  decided,  he  had  been  deceived  by  the 
depth  of  their  coloring;  they  were  blue,  Mediter- 
ranean blue,  and  her  lashes  were  an  inch  and  a  half 
long  at  the  very  least.  She  was  not  only  pretty,  she 
was  going  to  be  beautiful  some  day.  A  strange  pre- 
monition struck  David  of  a  future  in  which  this 
long-lashed,  stoic  baby  was  in  some  way  inextricably 
bound. 

"How  old  are  you?"  he  asked  her  abruptly. 

"Ten  years  old  day  before  yesterday." 

They  had  been  making  their  way  througH  the 
Park;  the  searer,  yellower  Park  of  late  November. 
It  looked  duller  and  more  cheerless  than  David  ever 


11 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

remembered  it.  The  leaves  rattled  on  the  trees,  and 
the  sun  went  down  suddenly. 

"This  is  Central  Park,"  he  said.  "In  the  spring 
it's  very  beautiful  here,  and  all  the  people  you  know 
go  motoring  or  driving  in  the  afternoon." 

He  bowed  to  his  mother's  milliner  in  a  little 
French  runabout.  The  Frenchman  stared  frankly 
at  the  baby  blue  tam-o'-shanter  and  the  tangled 
golden  head  it  surmounted. 

"Joseph  could  make  you  a  peachy  tam-o'-shanter 
looking  thing  of  blue  velvet;  I'll  bet  I  could  draw 
him  a  picture  to  copy.  Your  Uncle  David,  you 
know,  is  an  artist  of  a  sort." 

For  the  first  time  since  their  incongruous  associ- 
ation began  the  child  met  his  smile ;  her  face  relaxed 
ever  so  little,  and  the  lips  quivered,  but  she  smiled 
a  shy,  little  dawning  smile.  There  was  trust  in  it 
and  confidence.  David  put  out  his  hand  to  pat  hers, 
but  thought  better  of  it 

"Eleanor,"  he  said,  "my  mother  knows  our  only 
living  Ex-president,  and  the  Countess  of  Warwick, 
one  Vanderbilt,  two  Astors,  and  she's  met  Sir  Gil- 
bert Parker,  and  Rudyard  Kipling.  She  also  knows 
many  of  the  stars  and  satellites  of  upper  Fifth 
Avenue.  She  has,  as  well,  family  connections  of  so 

12 


ENTER  ELEANOR 

much  weight  and  stolidity  that  their  very  approach, 
singly  or  in  conjunction,  shakes  the  earth  under- 
neath them. — I  wish  we  could  meet  them  all, 
Eleanor,  every  blessed  one  of  them." 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  COOPERATIVE  PARENTS 

4  6  T  WONDER  how  a  place  like  this  apartment 

A      will  look  to  her,"  Beulah  said  thoughtfully. 

"I  wonder  if  it  will  seem  elegant,  or  cramped  to 

death.     I  wonder  if  she  will  take  to  it  kindly,  or 

with  an  ill  concealed  contempt  for  its  limitations." 

"The  poor  little  thing  will  probably  be  so  fright- 
ened and  homesick  by  the  time  David  gets  her  here, 
that  she  won't  know  what  kind  of  a  place  she's 
arrived  at,"  Gertrude  suggested.  "Oh,  I  wouldn't 
be  in  your  shoes  for  the  next  few  days  for  anything 
in  the  world,  Beulah  Page;  would  you,  Margaret?" 

The  third  girl  in  the  group  smiled. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  thoughtfully.  "It  would 
be  rather  fun  to  begin  it." 

"I'd  rather  have  her  for  the  first  two  months,  and 
get  it  over  with,"  Beulah  said  decisively.  "It'll  be 
hanging  over  your  head  long  after  my  ordeal  is  over, 
and  by  the  time  I  have  to  have  her  again  she'll  be 
absolutely  in  training.  You  don't  come  until  the 
fifth  on  the  list  you  know,  Gertrude.  Jimmie  has 
her  after  me,  then  Margaret,  then  Peter,  and  you, 

14 


THE   COOPERATIVE   PARENTS 

and  David,  if  he  has  got  up  the  courage  to  tell  his 
mother  by  that  time." 

"But  if  he  hasn't,"  Gertrude  suggested. 

"He  can  work  it  out  for  himself.  He's  got  to  take 
the  child  two  months  like  the  rest  of  us.  He's 
agreed  to." 

"He  will,"  Margaret  said,  "I've  never  known  him 
to  go  back  on  his  word  yet." 

"Trust  Margaret  to  stick  up  for  David.  Anyway, 
I've  taken  the  precaution  to  put  it  in  writing,  as  you 
know,  and  the  document  is  filed." 

"We're  not  adopting  this  infant  legally." 

"No,  Gertrude,  we  can't, — yet,  but  morally  we  are. 
She  isn't  an  infant,  she's  ten  years  old.  I  wish  you 
girls  would  take  the  matter  a  little  more  seriously. 
We've  bound  ourselves  to  be  responsible  for  this 
child's  whole  future.  We  have  undertaken  her 
moral,  social  and  religious  education.  Her  body  and 
soul  are  to  be — " 

"Equally  divided  among  us,"  Gertrude  cut  in. 

Beulah  scorned  the  interruption. 

" — held  sacredly  in  trust  by  the  six  of  us,  severally 
and  collectively." 

"Why  haven't  we  adopted  her  legally  then?"  Mar- 
garet asked. 

15 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"Well,  you  see,  there  are  practical  objections.  You 
have  to  be  a  corporation  or  an  institution  or  some- 
thing, to  adopt  a  child  as  a  group.  A  child  can't 
have  three  sets  of  parents  in  the  eyes  of  the  law, 
especially  when  none  of  them  is  married,  or  have 
the  least  intention  of  being  married,  to  each  other. — • 
I  don't  see  what  you  want  to  keep  laughing  at, 
Gertrude.  It's  all  a  little  unusual  and  modern  and 
that  sort  of  thing,  but  I  don't  think  it's  funny.  Do 
you,  Margaret?" 

"I  think  that  it's  funny,  but  I  think  that  it's 
serious,  too,  Beulah." 

"I  don't  see  what's  funny  about — "  Beulah  began 
hotly. 

"You  don't  see  what's  funny  about  anything, — 
even  Rogers  College,  do  you,  darling?  It  is  funny 
though  for  the  bunch  of  us  to  undertake  the  upbring- 
ing of  a  child  ten  years  old ;  to  make  ourselves  finan- 
cially and  spiritually  responsible  for  it.  It's  a  lot 
more  than  funny,  I  know,  but  it  doesn't  seem  to  me 
as  if  I  could  go  on  with  it  at  all,  until  somebody  was 
willing  to  admit  what  a  scream  the  whole  thing  is." 

"We'll  admit  that,  if  that's  all  you  want,  won't  we, 
Beulah?"  Margaret  appealed. 

"If  I've  got  this  insatiable  sense  of  humor,  let's 

16 


THE  COOPERATIVE   PARENTS 

indulge  it  by  all  means,"  Gertrude  laughed.  "Go  on, 
chillun,  go  on,  I'll  try  to  be  good  now." 

"I  wish  you  would,"  Margaret  said.  "Confine 
yourself  to  a  syncopated  chortle  while  I  get  a 
few  facts  out  of  Beulah.  I  did  most  of  my 
voting  on  this  proposition  by  proxy,  while  I  was 
having  the  measles  in  quarantine.  Beulah,  did  I 
understand  you  to  say  you  got  hold  of  your  victim 
through  Mrs.  O'Farrel,  your  seamstress?" 

"Yes,  when  we  decided  we'd  do  this,  we  thought 
we'd  get  a  child  about  six.  We  couldn't  have  her 
any  younger,  because  there  would  be  bottles,  and 
expert  feeding,  and  well,  you  know,  all  those  things. 
We  couldn't  have  done  it,  especially  the  boys.  We 
thought  six  would  be  just  about  the  right  age,  but 
we  simply  couldn't  find  a  child  that  would  do.  We 
had  to  know  about  its  antecedents.  We  looked 
through  the  orphan  asylums,  but  there  wasn't  any- 
thing pure-blooded  American  that  we  could  be  sure 
of.  We  were  all  agreed  that  we  wanted  pure  Ameri- 
can blood.  I  knew  Mrs.  O'Farrel  had  relatives  on 
Cape  Cod  You  know  what  that  stock  is,  a  good 
sea-faring  strain,  and  a  race  of  wonderfully  fine 
women,  'atavistic  aristocrats'  I  remember  an  author 
in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  called  them  once.  I  suppose 

17 


JURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

you  think  it's  funny  to  groan,  Gertrude,  when  any- 
body makes  a  literary  allusion,  but  it  isn't.  Well, 
anyway,  Mrs.  O'Farrel  knew  about  this  child,  and 
sent  for  her.  She  stayed  with  Mrs.  O'Farrel  over 
Sunday,  and  now  David  is  bringing  her  here.  She'll 
be  here  in  a  minute." 

"Why  David?"  Gertrude  twinkled. 

"Why  not  David  ?"  Beulah  retorted.  "It  will  be  a 
good  experience  for  him,  besides  David  is  so  amusing 
when  he  tries  to  be,  I  thought  he  could  divert  her  on 
the  way." 

"It  isn't  such  a  crazy  idea,  after  all,  Gertrude." 
Margaret  Hutchinson  was  the  youngest  of  the  three, 
being  within  several  months  of  her  majority,  but  she 
looked  older.  Her  face  had  that  look  of  wisdom 
that  comes  to  the  young  who  have  suffered  physical 
pain.  "We've  got  to  do  something.  We're  all  too 
full  of  energy  and  spirits,  at  least  the  rest  of  you 
are,  and  I'm  getting  huskier  every  minute,  to  twirl 
our  hands  and  do  nothing.  None  of  us  ever  wants 
to  be  married, — that's  settled ;  but  we  do  want  to  be 
useful.  We're  a  united  group  of  the  closest  kind  of 
friends,  bound  by  the  ties  of — of — natural  selection, 
and  we  need  a  purpose  in  life.  Gertrude's  a  real 
artist,  but  the  rest  of  us  are  not,  and — and — " 

18 


THE   COOPERATIVE   PARENTS 

"What  could  be  more  natural  for  us  than  to  want 
the  living  clay  to  work  on?  That's  the  idea,  isn't 
it?"  Gertrude  said.  "I  can  be  serious  if  I  want  to, 
Beulah-land,  but,  honestly,  girls,  when  I  come  to  face 
out  the  proposition,  I'm  almost  afraid  to.  What'll 
I  do  with  that  child  when  it  comes  to  be  my  turn? 
What'll  Jimmie  do?  Buy  her  a  string  of  pearls,  and 
show  her  the  night  life  of  New  York  very  likely. 
How'll  I  break  it  to  my  mother?  That's  the  cheerful 
little  echo  in  my  thoughts  night  and  day.  How  did 
you  break  it  to  yours,  Beulah  ?" 

Beulah  flushed.  Her  serious  brown  eyes,  deep 
brown  with  wine-colored  lights  in  them,  met  those 
of  each  of  her  friends  in  turn.  Then  she  laughed. 

"Well,  I  do  know  this  is  funny,"  she  said,  "but, 
you  know,  I  haven't  dared  tell  her.  She'll  be  away 
for  a  month,  anyway.  Aunt  Ann  is  here,  but  I'm 
only  telling  her  that  I'm  having  a  little  girl  from  the 
country  to  visit  me." 

Occasionally  the  architect  of  an  apartment  on  the 
upper  west  side  of  New  York — by  pure  accident,  it 
would  seem,  since  the  general  run  of  such  apart- 
ments is  so  uncomfortable,  and  unfriendly — hits 
upon  a  plan  for  a  group  of  rooms  that  are  at  once 
graciously  proportioned  and  charmingly  convenient, 

19 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

while  not  being  an  absolute  offense  to  the  eye  in  re- 
spect to  the  details  of  their  decoration.  Beulah  Page 
and  her  mother  lived  in  such  an  apartment,  and  they 
had  managed  with  a  few  ancestral  household  gods, 
and  a  good  many  carefully  related  modern  additions 
to  them,  to  make  of  their  eight  rooms  and  bath,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  ubiquitous  butler's-pantry,  some- 
thing very  remarkably  resembling  a  home,  in  its 
most  delightful  connotation :  and  it  was  in  the  draw- 
ing room  of  this  home  that  the  three  girls  were  gath- 
ered. 

Beulah,  the  younger  daughter  of  a  widowed 
mother — now  visiting  in  the  home  of  the  elder 
daughter,  Beulah's  sister  Agatha,  in  the  expectation 
of  what  the  Victorians  refer  to  as  an  "interesting 
event" — was  technically  under  the  chaperonage  of 
her  Aunt  Ann,  a  solemn  little  spinster  with  no 
control  whatever  over  the  movements  of  her  deter- 
mined young  niece. 

Beulah  was  just  out  of  college, — just  out,  in  fact, 
of  the  most  high-minded  of  all  the  colleges  for 
women; — that  founded  by  Andrew  Rogers  in  the 
year  of  our  Lord  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-one. 
There  is  probably  a  greater  percentage  of  purposeful 
young  women  graduated  from  Rogers  College  every 

20 


THE   COOPERATIVE   PARENTS 

year,  than  from  any  other  one  of  the  communities 
of  learning  devoted  to  the  education  of  women;  and 
of  all  the  purposeful  classes  turned  out  from  that 
admirable  institution,  Beulah's  class  could  without 
exaggeration  be  designated  as  the  most  purposeful 
class  of  them  all.  That  Beulah  was  not  the  most 
purposeful  member  of  her  class  merely  argues  that 
an  almost  abnormally  high  standard  of  purposeful- 
ness  was  maintained  by  practically  every  indivi- 
dual in  it. 

At  Rogers  every  graduating  class  has  its  fad ;  its 
propaganda  for  a  crusade  against  the  most  startling 
evils  of  the  world.  One  year,  the  sacred  outlines  of 
the  human  figure  are  protected  against  disfigurement 
by  an  ardent  group  of  young  classicists  in  Grecian 
draperies.  The  next,  a  fierce  young  brood  of  vege- 
tarians challenge  a  lethargic  world  to  mortal  combat 
over  an  Argentine  sirloin.  The  year  of  Beulah's  grad- 
uation, the  new  theories  of  child  culture  that  were 
gaining  serious  headway  in  academic  circles,  had 
filtered  into  the  class  rooms,  and  Beulah's  mates  had 
contracted  the  contagion  instantly.  The  entire  senior 
class  went  mad  on  the  subject  of  child  psychology 
and  the  various  scientific  prescriptions  for  the  direc- 
tion of  the  young  idea. 

21 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

It  was  therefore  primarily  to  Beulah  Page,  that 
little  Eleanor  Hamlin,  of  Colhassett,  Massachusetts, 
owed  the  change  in  her  fortune.  At  least  it  was  to 
Beulah  that  she  owed  the  initial  inspiration  that  set 
the  wheel  of  that  fortune  in  motion ;  but  it  was  to  the 
glorious  enterprise  and  idealism  of  youth,  and  the 
courage  of  a  set  of  the  most  intrepid  and  quixotic 
convictions  that  ever  quickened  in  the  breasts  of  a 
mad  half  dozen  youngsters,  that  she  owed  the  actual 
fulfillment  of  her  adventure. 

The  sound  of  the  door-bell  brought  the  three  girls 
to  their  feet,  but  the  footfalls  in  the  corridor,  double 
quick  time,  and  accentuated,  announced  merely  the 
arrival  of  Jimmie  Sears,  and  Peter  Stuyvesant, 
nicknamed  Gramercy  by  common  consent. 

"Has  she  come?"  Peter  asked. 

But  Jimmie  struck  an  attitude  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor. 

"My  daughter,  oh !  my  daughter,"  he  cried.  "This 
suspense  is  killing  me.  For  the  love  of  Mike,  chil- 
dren, where  is  she?" 

"She's  coming,"  Beulah  answered;  "David's 
bringing  her." 

Gertrude    pushed    him    into    the    chaise-lounge 

22 


THE  COOPERATIVE   PARENTS 

already  in  the  possession  of  Margaret,  and  squeezed 
in  between  them. 

"Hold  my  hand,  Jimmie,"  she  said.  "The  feelings 
of  a  father  are  nothing, — nothing  in  comparison  to 
those  which  smolder  in  the  maternal  breast.  Look 
at  Beulah,  how  white  she  is,  and  Margaret  is  trem- 
bling this  minute." 

"I'm  trembling,  too,"  Peter  said,  "or  if  I'm  not 
trembling,  I'm  frightened." 

"We're  all  frightened,"  Margaret  said,  "but  we're 
game." 

The  door-bell  rang  again. 

"There  they  come,"  Beulah  said,  "oh !  everybody 
be  good  to  me." 

The  familiar  figure  of  their  good  friend  David 
appeared  on  the  threshold  at  this  instant,  and  beside 
him  an  odd-looking  little  figure  in  a  shoddy  cloth 
coat,  and  a  faded  blue  tam-o'-shanter.  There  was 
a  long  smudge  of  dirt  reaching  from  the  corner  of 
her  eye  well  down  into  the  middle  of  her  cheek.  A 
kind  of  composite  gasp  went  up  from  the  waiting 
group,  a  gasp  of  surprise,  consternation,  and  panic. 
Not  one  of  the  five  could  have  told  at  that  instant 
what  it  was  he  expected  to  see,  or  how  his  imagina- 

23 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

tion  of  the  child  differed  from  the  concrete  reality, 
but  amazement  and  keen  disappointment  constrained 
them.  Here  was  no  figure  of  romance  and  delight. 
No  miniature  Galatea  half  hewn  out  of  the  block 
of  humanity,  waiting  for  the  chisel  of  a  composite 
Pygmalion.  Here  was  only  a  grubby,  little  unkempt 
child,  like  all  other  children,  but  not  so  presentable. 

"What's  the  matter  with  everybody?"  said  David 
with  unnatural  sharpness.  "I  want  to  present  you  to 
our  ward,  Miss  Eleanor  Hamlin,  who  has  come  a 
long  way  for  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you.  Eleanor, 
these  are  your  cooperative  parents." 

The  child's  set  gaze  followed  his  gesture  obedi- 
ently. David  took  the  little  hand  in  his,  and  led 
the  owner  into  the  heart  of  the  group.  Beulah 
stepped  forward. 

"This  is  your  Aunt  Beulah,  Eleanor,  of  whom  I've 
been  telling  you." 

"I'm  pleased  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Aunt 
Beulah,"  the  little  girl  said,  as  Beulah  put  out  her 
hand,  still  uncertainly. 

Then  the  five  saw  a  strange  thing  happen.  The 
immaculate,  inscrutable  David — the  aristocrat  of 
aristocrats,  the  one  undemonstrative,  super-self-con- 

24 


THE   COOPERATIVE   PARENTS 

scious  member  of  the  crowd,  who  had  been  delegated 
to  transport  the  little  orphan  chiefly  because  the 
errand  was  so  incongruous  a  mission  on  which  to 
despatch  him — David  put  his  arm  around  the  neck  of 
the  child  with  a  quick  protecting  gesture,  and  then 
gathered  her  close  in  his  arms,  where  she  clung, 
quivering  and  sobbing,  the  unkempt  curls  straggling 
helplessly  over  his  shoulder. 

He  strode  across  the  room  where  Margaret  was 
still  sitting  upright  in  the  chaise-lounge,  her  dove- 
gray  eyes  wide,  her  lips  parted. 

"Here,  you  take  her,"  he  said,  without  ceremony, 
and  slipped  his  burden  into  her  arms. 

"Welcome  to  our  city,  Kiddo,"  Jimmie  said  in  his 
throat,  but  nobody  heard  him. 

Peter,  whose  habit  it  was  to  walk  up  and  down 
endlessly  wherever  he  felt  most  at  home,  paused  in 
his  peregrination,  as  Margaret  shyly  gathered  the 
rough  little  head  to  her  bosom.  The  child  met  his 
gaze  as  he  did  so. 

"We  weren't  quite  up  to  scratch,"  he  said  gravely. 

Beulah's  eyes  filled.  "Peter,"  she  said,  "Peter,  I 
didn't  mean  to  be — not  to  be — " 

But  Peter  seemed  not  to  know  she  was  speaking. 

25 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

The  child's  eyes  still  held  him,  and  he  stood  gazing 
down  at  her,  his  handsome  head  thrown  slightly 
back ;  his  face  deeply  intent ;  his  eyes  softened. 

"I'm  your  Uncle  Peter,  Eleanor,"  he  said,  and 
bent  down  till  his  lips  touched  her  forehead. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  EXPERIMENT  BEGINS 

ELEANOR  walked  over  to  the  steam  pipes, 
and  examined  them  carefully.  The  terrible 
rattling  noise  had  stopped,  as  had  also  the  choking 
and  gurgling  that  had  kept  her  awake  because  it 
was  so  like  the  noise  that  Mrs.  O'Farrel's  aunt, 
the  sick  lady  she  had  helped  to  take  care  of, 
made  constantly  for  the  last  two  weeks  of 
her  life.  Whenever  there  was  a  sound  that 
was  anything  like  that,  Eleanor  could  not  help 
shivering.  She  had  never  seen  steam  pipes  before. 
When  Beulah  had  shown  her  the  room  where  she 
was  to  sleep — a  room  all  in  blue,  baby  blue,  and 
pink  roses — Eleanor  thought  that  the  silver  pipes 
standing  upright  in  the  corner  were  a  part  of  some 
musical  instrument,  like  a  pipe  organ.  When  the 
rattling  sound  had  begun  she  thought  that  some  one 
had  come  into  the  room  with  her,  and  was  tuning  it. 
She  had  drawn  the  pink  silk  puff  closely  about  her 
ears,  and  tried  not  to  be  frightened.  Trying  not  to 
be  frightened  was  the  way  she  had  spent  a  good  deal 

27 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

of  her  time  since  her  Uncle  Amos  died,  and  she  had 
had  to  look  out  for  her  grandparents. 

Now  that  it  was  morning,  and  the  bright  sun  was 
streaming  into  the  windows,  she  ventured  to  climb 
out  of  bed  and  approach  the  uncanny  instrument. 
She  tripped  on  the  trailing  folds  of  that  nightgown 
her  Aunt  Beulah — it  was  funny  that  all  these  ladies 
should  call  themselves  her  aunts,  when  they  were 
really  no  relation  to  her — had  insisted  on  her  wear- 
ing. Her  own  nightdress  had  been  left  in  the  time- 
worn  carpetbag  that  Uncle  David  had  forgotten  to 
take  out  of  the  "handsome  cab."  She  stumbled 
against  the  silver  pipes.  They  were  hot;  so  hot  that 
the  flesh  of  her  arm  nearly  blistered,  but  she  did  not 
cry  out.  Here  was  another  mysterious  problem  of 
the  kind  that  New  York  presented  at  every  turn,  to 
be  silently  accepted,  and  dealt  with. 

Her  mother  and  father  had  once  lived  in  New 
York.  Her  father  had  been  born  here,  in  a  house 
with  a  brownstone  front  on  West  Tenth  Street, 
wherever  that  was.  She  herself  had  lived  in  New 
York  when  she  was  a  baby,  though  she  had  been 
born  in  her  grandfather's  house  in  Colhassett.  She 
had  lived  in  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  too,  until  she  was  four 
years  old,  and  her  father  and  mother  had  died  there, 

28 


THE  EXPERIMENT  BEGINS 

both  in  the  same  week,  of  pneumonia.  She  wished 
this  morning,  that  she  could  remember  the  house 
where  they  lived  in  New  York,  and  the  things  that 
were  in  it. 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door.  Ought  she  to  go 
and  open  the  door  in  her  nightdress  ?  Ought  she  to 
call  out  "Come  in?"  It  might  be  a  gentleman,  and 
her  Aunt  Beulah's  nightdress  was  not  very  thick. 
She  decided  to  cough,  so  that  whoever  was  outside 
might  understand  she  was  in  there,  and  had  heard 
them. 

"May  I  come  in,  Eleanor?"  Beulah's  voice  called. 

"Yes,  ma'am."  She  started  to  get  into  bed,  but 
Miss — Miss — the  nearer  she  was  to  her,  the  harder 
it  was  to  call  her  aunt, — Aunt  Beulah  might  think  it 
was  time  she  was  up.  She  compromised  by  sitting 
down  in  a  chair. 

Beulah  had  passed  a  practically  sleepless  night 
working  out  the  theory  of  Eleanor's  development. 
The  six  had  agreed  on  a  certain  sketchily  defined 
method  of  procedure.  That  is,  they  were  to  read 
certain  books  indicated  by  Beulah,  and  to  follow  the 
general  schedule  that  she  was  to  work  out  and  adapt 
to  the  individual  needs  of  the  child  herself,  during 
the  first  phase  of  the  experiment.  She  felt  that  she 

29 


.TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

had  managed  the  reception  badly,  that  she  had  not 
done  or  said  the  right  thing.  Peter's  attitude  had 
shown  that  he  felt  the  situation  had  been  clumsily 
handled,  and  it  was  she  who  was  responsible  for  it. 
Peter  was  too  kind  to  criticize  her,  but  she  had  vowed 
in  the  muffled  depths  of  a  feverish  pillow  that  there 
should  be  no  more  flagrant  flaws  in  the  conduct  of 
the  campaign. 

"Did  you  sleep  well,  Eleanor?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Are  you  hungry  ?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

The  conversation  languished  at  this. 

"Have  you  had  your  bath  ?" 

"I  didn't  know  I  was  to  have  one." 

"Nice  little  girls  have  a  bath  every  day." 

"Do  they?"  Eleanor  asked.  Her  Aunt  Beulah 
seemed  to  expect  her  to  say  something  more,  but  she 
couldn't  think  of  anything. 

"I'll  draw  your  bath  for  you  this  morning.  After 
this  you  will  be  expected  to  take  it  yourself." 

Eleanor  had  seen  bathrooms  before,  but  she  had 
never  been  in  a  bath-tub.  At  her  grandfather's,  she 
had  taken  her  Saturday  night  baths  in  an  old  wooden 
wash-tub,  which  had  water  poured  in  it  from  the  tea 

30 


THE  EXPERIMENT  BEGINS 

kettle.  When  Beulah  closed  the  door  on  her  she 
stepped  gingerly  into  the  tub:  the  water  was  twice 
too  hot,  but  she  didn't  know  how  to  turn  the  faucet, 
or  whether  she  was  expected  to  turn  it.  Mrs. 
O' Parrel  had  told  her  that  people  had  to  pay  for 
water  in  New  York.  Perhaps  Aunt  Beulah  had 
drawn  all  the  water  she  could  have.  She  used  the 
soap  sparingly.  Soap  was  expensive,  she  knew.  She 
wished  there  was  some  way  of  discovering  just  how 
much  of  things  she  was  expected  to  use.  The  number 
of  towels  distressed  her,  but  she  finally  took  the 
littlest  and  dried  herself.  The  heat  of  the  water  had 
nearly  parboiled  her. 

After  that,  she  tried  to  do  blindly  what  she  was 
told.  There  was  a  girl  in  a  black  dress  and  white 
apron  that  passed  her  everything  she  had  to  eat.  Her 
Aunt  Beulah  told  her  to  help  herself  to  sugar  and  to 
cream  for  her  oatmeal,  from  off  this  girl's  tray.  Her 
hand  trembled  a  good  deal,  but  she  was  fortunate 
enough  not  to  spill  any.  After  breakfast  she  was 
sent  to  wash  her  hands  in  the  bathroom ;  she  turned 
the  faucet,  and  used  a  very  little  water.  Then,  when 
she  was  called,  she  went  into  the  sitting-room  and 
sat  down,  and  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap. 

Beulah  looked  at  her  with  some  perplexity.    The 

31 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

child  was  docile  and  willing,  but  she  seemed  unex- 
pectedly stupid  for  a  girl  ten  years  old. 

"Have  you  ever  been  examined  for  adenoids, 
Eleanor?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Say,  'no,  Aunt  Beulah.'  Don't  say,  'no,  ma'am' 
and  'yes,  ma'am.'  People  don't  say  'no,  ma'am'  and 
'yes,  ma'am'  any  more,  you  know.  They  say  'no'  and 
'yes,'  and  then  mention  the  name  of  the  person  to 
whom  they  are  speaking." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  Eleanor 'couldn't  stop  herself  say- 
ing it.  She  wanted  to  correct  herself.  "No,  Aunt 
Beulah,  no,  Aunt  Beulah,"  but  the  words  stuck  in 
her  throat. 

"Well,  try  to  remember,"  Beulah  said.  She  was 
thinking  of  the  case  in  a  book  of  psychology  that  she 
had  been  reading  that  morning,  of  a  girl  who  was 
"pale  and  sleepy  looking,  expressionless  of  face, 
careless  of  her  personal  appearance,"  who  after  an 
operation  for  adenoids,  had  become  "as  animated 
and  bright  as  before  she  had  been  lethargic  and  dull." 
She  was  pleased  to  see  that  Eleanor's  fine  hair  had 
been  scrupulously  combed,  and  neatly  braided  this 
morning,  not  being  able  to  realize — as  how  should 
she? — that  the  condition  of  Eleanor's  fine  spun  locks 

32 


THE  EXPERIMENT  BEGINS 

on  her  arrival  the  night  before,  had  been  attributable 
to  the  fact  that  the  O' Parrel  baby  had  stolen  her 
comb,  and  Eleanor  had  been  too  shy  to  mention  the 
fact,  and  had  combed  her  hair  mermaid-wise, 
through  her  fingers. 

"This  morning,"  Beulah  began  brightly,  "I  am 
going  to  turn  you  loose  in  the  apartment,  and  let 
you  do  what  you  like.  I  want  to  get  an  idea  of  the 
things  you  do  like,  you  know.  You  can  sew,  or  read, 
or  drum  on  the  piano,  or  talk  to  me,  anything  that 
pleases  you  most.  I  want  you  to  be  happy,  that's  all, 
and  to  enjoy  yourself  in  your  own  way." 

"Give  the  child  absolute  freedom  in  which  to 
demonstrate  the  worth  and  value  of  its  ego," — that 
was  what  she  was  doing,  "keeping  it  carefully  under 
observation  while  you  determine  the  individual  trend 
along  which  to  guide  its  development." 

The  little  girl  looked  about  her  helplessly.  The 
room  was  very  large  and  bright.  The  walls  were 
white,  and  so  was  the  woodwork,  the  mantle,  and 
some  of  the  furniture.  Gay  figured  curtains  hung 
at  the  windows,  and  there  were  little  stools,  and 
chairs,  and  even  trays  with  glass  over  them,  covered 
with  the  same  bright  colored  material.  Eleanor  had 
never  seen  a  room  anything  like  it.  There  was  no 

33 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

center-table,  no  crayon  portraits  of  different  mem- 
bers of  the  family,  no  easels,  or  scarves  thrown  over 
the  corners  of  the  pictures.  There  were  not  many 
pictures,  and  those  that  there  were  didn't  seem  to 
Eleanor  like  pictures  at  all,  they  were  all  so  blurry 
and  smudgy, — excepting  one  of  a  beautiful  lady.  She 
would  have  liked  to  have  asked  the  name  of  that 
lady, — but  her  Aunt  Beulah's  eyes  were  upon  her. 
She  slipped  down  from  her  chair  and  walked  across 
the  room  to  the  window. 

"Well,  dear,  what  would  make  this  the  happiest 
day  you  can  think  of?"  Beulah  asked,  in  the  tone 
she  was  given  to  use  when  she  asked  Gertrude 
and  Margaret  and  Jimmie — but  not  often  Peter — 
what  they  expected  to  do  with  their  lives. 

Eleanor  turned  a  desperate  face  from  the  win- 
dow, from  the  row  of  bland  elegant  apartment 
buildings  she  had  been  contemplating  with  unsee- 
ing eyes. 

"Do  I  have  to?"  she  asked  Beulah  piteously. 

"Have  to  what?" 

"Have  to  amuse  myself  in  my  own  way?  I 
don't  know  what  you  want  me  to  do.  I  don't  know 
what  you  think  that  I  ought  to  do." 

A  strong-minded  and  spoiled  younger  daughter 

34 


JHE  EXPERIMENT  BEGINS 

of  a  widowed  mother — whose  chief  anxiety  had 
been  to  anticipate  the  wants  of  her  children  before 
they  were  expressed — with  an  independent  income, 
and  a  beloved  and  admiring  circle  of  intimate 
friends,  is  not  likely  to  be  imaginatively  equipped 
to  explore  the  spiritual  fastnesses  of  a  sensitive 
and  alien  orphan.  Beulah  tried  earnestly  to  get 
some  perspective  on  the  child's  point  of  view,  but 
she  could  not.  The  fact  that  she  was  torturing 
the  child  would  have  been  outside  of  the  limits  of  her 
comprehension.  She  searched  her  mind  for  some 
immediate  application  of  the  methods  of  Madame 
Montessori,  and  produced  a  lump  of  modeling 
clay. 

"You  don't  really  have  to  do  anything,  Eleanor," 
she  said  kindly.  "I  don't  want  you  to  make  an 
effort  to  please  me,  only  to  be  happy  yourself.  Why 
don't  you  try  and  see  what  you  can  do  with  this 
modeling  clay?  Just  try  making  it  up  into  mud 
pies,  or  anything." 

"Mud  pies?" 

"Let  the  child  teach  himself  the  significance  of 
contour,  and  the  use  of  his  hands,  by  fashioning 
the  clay  into  rudimentary  forms  of  beauty."  That 
was  the  theory. 

35 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"Yes,  dear,  mud  pies,  if  you  wish  to." 

Whereupon  Eleanor,  conscientiously  and  miser- 
ably, turned  out  a  neat  half-dozen  skilful,  minia- 
ture models  of  the  New  England  deep  dish  apple- 
pie,  pricked  and  pinched  to  a  nicety. 

Beulah,  with  a  vision  related  to  the  nebulous 
stages  of  a  study  by  Rodin,  was  somewhat  dis- 
concerted with  this  result,  but  she  brightened  as 
she  thought  at  least  she  had  discovered  a  natural 
tendency  in  the  child  that  she  could  help  her 
develop. 

"Do  you  like  to  cook,  Eleanor?"  she  asked. 

In  the  child's  mind  there  rose  the  picture  of  her 
grim  apprenticeship  on  Cape  Cod.  She  could  see 
the  querulous  invalid  in  the  sick  chair,  her  face 
distorted  with  pain  and  impatience;  she  could  feel 
the  sticky  dough  in  her  fingers,  and  the  heat  from 
the  stove  rising  round  her. 

"I  hate  cooking,"  she  said,  with  the  first  hint  of 
passion  she  had  shown  in  her  relation  to  her  new 
friends. 

The  day  dragged  on  wearily.  Beulah  took  her 
to  walk  on  the  Drive,  but  as  far  as  she  was  able 
to  determine  the  child  saw  nothing  of  her  sur- 
roundings. The  crowds  of  trimly  dressed  people, 

36 


the  nursemaids  and  babies,  the  swift  slim  outlines 
of  the  whizzing  motors,  even  the  battleships  lying 
so  suggestively  quiescent  on  the  river  before  them 
— all  the  spectacular,  vivid  panorama  of  afternoon 
on  Riverside  Drive — seemed  absolutely  without  in- 
terest or  savor  to  the  child.  Beulah's  despair  and 
chagrin  were  increasing  almost  as  rapidly  as 
Eleanor's. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Beulah  suggested  a  nap. 
"I'll  sit  here  and  read  for  a  few  minutes,"  she 
said,  as  she  tucked  Eleanor  under  the  covers.  Then, 
since  she  was  quite  desperate  for  subjects  of  con- 
versation, and  still  determined  by  the  hot  memory 
of  her  night's  vigil  to  leave  no  stone  of  geniality 
unturned,  she  added: 

"This  is  a  book  that  I  am  reading  to  help  me 
to  know  how  to  guide  and  educate  you.  I  haven't 
had  much  experience  in  adopting  children,  you 
know,  Eleanor,  and  when  there  is  anything  in  this 
world  that  you  don't  know,  there  is  usually  some 
good  and  useful  book  that  will  help  you  to  find  out 
all  about  it." 

Even  to  herself  her  words  sounded  hatefully 
patronizing  and  pedagogic,  but  she  was  past  the 
point  of  believing  that  she  could  handle  the  situa- 

37 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

tion  with  grace.  When  Eleanor's  breath  seemed  to 
be  coming  regularly,  she  put  down  her  book  with 
some  thankfulness  and  escaped  to  the  tea  table, 
where  she  poured  tea  for  her  aunt,  and  explained 
the  child's  idiosyncrasies  swiftly  and  smoothly  to 
that  estimable  lady. 

Left  alone,  Eleanor  lay  still  for  a  while,  staring 
at  the  design  of  pink  roses  on  the  blue  wall-paper. 
On  Cape  Cod,  pink  and  blue  were  not  considered 
to  be  colors  that  could  be  combined.  There  was 
nothing  at  all  in  New  York  like  anything  she  knew 
or  remembered.  She  sighed.  Then  she  made  her 
way  to  the  window  and  picked  up  the  book  Beulah 
had  been  reading.  It  was  about  her,  Aunt  Beulah 
had  said, — directions  for  educating  her  and  train- 
ing her.  The  paragraph  that  caught  her  eye  where 
the  book  was  open  had  been  marked  with  a  pencil. 

"This  girl  had  such  a  fat,  frog  like  expression 
of  face,"  Eleanor  read,  "that  her  neighbors  thought 
her  an  idiot.  She  was  found  to  be  the  victim  of  a 
severe  case  of  ad-e-noids."  As  she  spelled  out  the 
word,  she  recognized  it  as  the  one  Beulah  had 
used  earlier  in  the  day.  She  remembered  the  sud- 
den sharp  look  with  which  the  question  had  been 
accompanied.  The  sick  lady  for  whom  she  had 

38 


THE  EXPERIMENT  BEGINS 

"worked  out"  had  often  called  her  an  idiot  when 
her  feet  had  stumbled,  or  she  had  failed  to  under- 
stand at  once  what  was  required  of  her. 

Eleanor  read  on.  She  encountered  a  text  re- 
plete with  hideous  examples  of  backward  and  de- 
ficient children,  victims  of  adenoids  who  had  been 
restored  to  a  state  of  normality  by  the  removal 
of  the  affliction.  She  had  no  idea  what  an  adenoid 
was.  She  had  a  hazy  notion  that  it  was  a  kind  of 
superfluous  bone  in  the  region  of  the  breast,  but 
her  anguish  was  rooted  in  the  fact  that  this,  this 
was  the  good  and  useful  book  that  her  Aunt  Beulah 
had  found  it  necessary  to  resort  to  for  guidance,  in 
the  case  of  her  own — Eleanor's — education. 

When  Beulah,  refreshed  by  a  cup  of  tea  and 
further  sustained  by  the  fact  that  Margaret  and 
Peter  had  both  telephoned  they  were  coming  to 
dinner,  returned  to  her  charge,  she  found  the  stolid, 
apathetic  child  she  had  left,  sprawling  face  down- 
ward on  the  floor,  in  a  passion  of  convulsive 
weeping. 


CHAPTER  IV 
PETER  ELUCIDATES 

IT  was  Peter  who  got  at  the  heart  of  the  trou- 
ble. Margaret  tried,  but  though  Eleanor  clung 
to  her  and  relaxed  under  the  balm  of  her  gentle 
caresses,  the  child  remained  entirely  inarticulate 
until  Peter  gathered  her  up  in  his  arms,  and  signed 
to  the  others  that  he  wished  to  be  left  alone 
with  her. 

By  the  time  he  rejoined  the  two  in  the  drawing- 
room — he  had  missed  his  after-dinner  coffee  in 
the  long  half-hour  that  he  had  spent  shut  into  the 
guest  room  with  the  child — Jimmie  and  Gertrude 
had  arrived,  and  the  four  sat  grouped  together  to 
await  his  pronouncement. 

"She  thinks  she  has  adenoids.  She  wants  the 
doll  that  David  left  in  that  carpetbag  of  hers  he 
forgot  to  take  out  of  the  'Handsome  cab.'  She 
wants  to  be  loved,  and  she  wants  to  grow  up  and 
write  poetry  for  the  newspapers,"  he  announced. 
"Also  she  will  eat  a  piece  of  bread  and  butter  and 
a  glass  of  milk,  as  soon  as  it  can  conveniently  be 
provided  for  her." 

40 


PETER  ELUCIDATES 

"When  did  you  take  holy  orders,  Gram?"  Jim- 
mie  inquired.  "How  do  you  work  the  confes- 
sional? I  wish  I  could  make  anybody  give  any- 
thing up  to  me,  but  I  can't.  Did  you  just  go  into 
that  darkened  chamber  and  say  to  the  kid,  'Child 
of  my  adoption, — cough,'  and  she  coughed,  or  are 
you  the  master  of  some  subtler  system  of  choking 
the  truth  out  of  'em?" 

"Anybody  would  tell  anything  to  Peter  if  he 
happened  to  want  to  know  it,"  Margaret  said  seri- 
ously. "Wouldn't  they,  Beulah?" 

Beulah  nodded.  "She  wants  to  be  loved,"  Peter 
had  said.  It  was  so  simple  for  some  people  to 
open  their  hearts  and  give  out  love, — easily,  lightly. 
She  was  not  made  like  that, — loving  came  hard 
with  her,  but  when  once  she  had  given  herself,  it 
was  done.  Peter  didn't  know  how  hard  she  had 
tried  to  do  right  with  the  child  that  day. 

"The  doll  is  called  the  rabbit  doll,  though  there 
is  no  reason  why  it  should  be,  as  it  only  looks 
the  least  tiny  bit  like  a  rabbit,  and  is  a  girl.  Its 
other  name  is  Gwendolyn,  and  it  always  goes  to 
bed  with  her.  Mrs.  O' Parrel's  aunt  said  that  chil- 
dren always  stopped  playing  with  dolls  when  they 
got  to  be  as  big  as  Eleanor,  but  she  isn't  never 

41 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

going  to  stop. — You  must  get  after  that  double 
negative,  Beulah. — She  once  wrote  a  poem  begin- 
ning :  The  rabbit  doll,  it  is  my  own.'  She  thinks 
that  she  has  a  frog-like  expression  of  face,  and  that 
is  why  Beulah  doesn't  like  her  better.  She  is  per- 
fectly willing  to  have  her  adenoids  cut  out,  if  Beulah 
thinks  it  would  improve  her,  but  she  doesn't  want 
to  'take  anything,'  when  she  has  it  done." 

"You  are  a  wonder,  Gram,"  Gertrude  said  ad- 
miringly. 

"Oh!  I  have  made  a  mess  of  it,  haven't  I?" 
Beulah  said.  "Is  she  homesick?" 

"Yes,  she's  homesick,"  Peter  said  gravely,  "but 
not  for  anything  she's  left  in  Colhassett.  David 
told  you  the  story,  didn't  he  ? — She  is  homesick  for 
her  own  kind,  for  people  she  can  really  love,  and 
she's  never  found  any  of  them.  Her  grandfather 
and  grandmother  are  old  and  decrepit.  She  feels 
a  terrible  responsibility  for  them,  but  she  doesn't 
love  them,  not  really.  She's  too  hungry  to  love 
anybody  until  she  finds  the  friends  she  can  cling 
to — without  compromise." 

"An  emotional  aristocrat,"  Gertrude  murmured. 
"It's  the  curse  of  taste." 

"Help!  Help!"  Jimmie  cried,  grimacing  at  Ger- 

42 


PETER  ELUCIDATES 

trude.  "Didn't  she  have  any  kids  her  own  age 
to  play  with?" 

"She  had  'em,  but  she  didn't  have  any  time  to 
play  with  them.  You  forget  she  was  supporting  a 
family  all  the  time,  Jimmie." 

"By  jove,  I'd  like  to  forget  it." 

"She  had  one  friend  named  Albertina  Weston 
that  she  used  to  run  around  with  in  school.  Al- 
bertina also  wrote  poetry.  They  used  to  do  poetic 
'stunts'  of  one  poem  a  day  on  some  subject  se- 
lected by  Albertina.  I  think  Albertina  was  a  snob. 
She  candidly  admitted  to  Eleanor  that  if  her  clothes 
were  more  stylish,  she  would  go  round  with  her 
more.  Eleanor  seemed  to  think  that  was  perfectly 
natural." 

"How  do  you  do  it,  Peter?"  Jimmie  besought. 
"If  I  could  get  one  damsel,  no  matter  how  tender 
her  years,  to  confide  in  me  like  that  I'd  be  happy 
for  life.  It's  nothing  to  you  with  those  eyes,  and 
that  matinee  forehead  of  yours;  but  I  want  'em 
to  weep  down  my  neck,  and  I  can't  make  'em 
do  it." 

"Wait  till  you  grow  up,  Jimmie,  and  then  see 
what  happens,"  Gertrude  soothed  him. 

"Wait  till  it's  your  turn  with  our  child,"  Mar- 

43 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

garet  said.  "In  two  months  more  she's  coming 
to  you." 

"Do  I  ever  forget  it  for  a  minute?"  Jimmie 
cried. 

"The  point  of  the  whole  business  is,"  Peter  con- 
tinued, "that  we've  got  a  human  soul  on  our  hands. 
We  imported  a  kind  of  scientific  plaything  to  ex- 
ercise our  spiritual  muscle  on,  and  we've  got  a  real 
specimen  of  womanhood  in  embryo.  I  don't  know 
whether  the  situation  appalls  you  as  much  as  it 
does  me — "  He  broke  off  as  he  heard  the  bell 
ring. 

"That's  David,  he  said  he  was  coming." 

Then  as  David  appeared  laden  with  the  lost 
carpetbag  and  a  huge  box  of  chocolates,  he  waved 
him  to  a  chair,  and  took  up  his  speech  again.  "I 
don't  know  whether  the  situation  appalls  you,  as 
much  as  it  does  me — if  I  don't  get  this  off  my 
chest  now,  David,  I  can't  do  it  at  all — but  the 
thought  of  that  poor  little  waif  in  there  and  the 
struggle  she's  had,  and  the  shy  valiant  spirit  of 
her, — the  sand  that  she's  got,  the  sand  that  put  her 
through  and  kept  her  mouth  shut  through  experi- 
ences that  might  easily  have  killed  her,  why  I  feel 
as  if  I'd  give  anything  I  had  in  the  world  to  make 

44 


PETER  ELUCIDATES 

it  up  to  her,  and  yet  I'm  not  altogether  sure  that 
I  could — that  we  could — that  it's  any  of  our  busi- 
ness to  try  it." 

"There's  nobody  else  who  will,  if  we  don't," 
David  said. 

"That's  it,"  Peter  said,  "I've  never  known  any 
one  of  our  bunch  to  quit  anything  that  they  once 
started  in  on,  but  just  by  way  of  formality  there 
is  one  thing  we  ought  to  do  about  this  proposition 
before  we  slide  into  it  any  further,  and  that  is  to 
agree  that  we  want  to  go  on  with  it,  that  we  know 
what  we're  in  for,  and  that  we're  game." 

"We  decided  all  that  before  we  sent  for  the 
kid,"  Jimmie  said,  "didn't  we?" 

"We  decided  we'd  adopt  a  child,  but  we  didn't 
decide  we'd  adopt  this  one.  Taking  the  responsi- 
bility of  this  one  is  the  question  before  the  house 
just  at  present." 

"The  idea  being,"  David  added,  "that  she's  a 
fairly  delicate  piece  of  work,  and  as  time  ad- 
vances she's  going  to  be  delicater." 

"And  that  it's  an  awkward  matter  to  play  with 
souls,"  Beulah  contributed;  whereupon  Jimmie 
murmured,  "Browning,"  sotto  voice. 

"She  may  be  all  that  you  say,  Gram,"  Jimmie 

45 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

said,  after  a  few  minutes  of  silence,  "a  thunder- 
ingly  refined  and  high-minded  young  waif,  but  you 
will  admit  that  without  an  interpreter  of  the  same 
class,  she  hasn't  been  much  good  to  us  so  far." 

"Good  lord,  she  isn't  refined  and  high-minded," 
Peter  said.  "That's  not  the  idea.  She's  simply 
supremely  sensitive  and  full  of  the  most  pathetic 
possibilities.  If  we're  going  to  undertake  her  we 
ought  to  realize  fully  what  we're  up  against,  and 
acknowledge  it, — that's  all  I'm  trying  to  say,  and 
I  apologize  for  assuming  that  it's  more  my  busi- 
ness than  anybody's  to  say  it." 

"That  charming  humility  stuff,  if  I  could  only 
remember  to  pull  it." 

The  sofa  pillow  that  Gertrude  aimed  at  Jimmie 
hit  him  full  on  the  mouth  and  he  busied  himself 
pretending  to  eat  it.  Beulah  scorned  the  inter- 
ruption. 

"Of  course,  we're  going  to  undertake  her," 
Beulah  said.  "We  are  signed  up  and  it's  all  down 
in  writing.  If  anybody  has  any  objections,  they 
can  state  them  now."  She  looked  about  her  dra- 
matically. On  every  young  face  was  reflected  the 
same  earnestness  that  set  gravely  on  her  own. 

"The  'ayes'  have  it,"  Jimmie  murmured.    "From 

46 


PETER  ELUCIDATES 

now  on  I  become  not  only  a  parent,  but  a  soul 
doctor."  He  rose,  and  tiptoed  solemnly  toward 
the  door  of  Eleanor's  room. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Jimmie?"  Beulah  called, 
as  he  was  disappearing  around  the  bend  in  the 
corridor. 

He  turned  back  to  lift  an  admonitory  ringer. 

"Shush,"  he  said,  "do  not  interrupt  me.  I  am 
going  to  wrap  baby  up  in  a  blanket  and  bring  her 
out  to  her  mothers  and  fathers." 


CHAPTER  V 
ELEANOR  ENJOYS  HERSELF  IN  HER  OWN  WAY 


4  4  T  AM  in  society  here,"  Eleanor  wrote  to  her 
M.  friend  Albertina,  with  a  pardonable  empha- 
sis on  that  phase  of  her  new  existence  that  would 
appeal  to  the  haughty  ideals  of  Miss  Weston,  "I 
don't  have  to  do  any  housework,  or  anything.  I 
sleep  under  a  pink  silk  bedquilt,  and  I  have  all  new 
clothes.  I  have  a  new  black  pattern  leather  sailor 
hat  that  I  sopose  you  would  laugh  at.  It  cost 
six  dollars  and  draws  the  sun  down  to  my  head 
but  I  don't  say  anything.  I  have  six  aunts  and 
uncles  all  diferent  names  and  ages  but  grown  up. 
Uncle  Peter  is  the  most  elderly,  he  is  twenty-five. 
I  know  becase  we  gave  him  a  birthday  party  with 
a  cake.  I  sat  at  the  table.  I  wore  my  crape  da 
shine  dress.  You  would  think  that  was  pretty, 
well  it  is.  There  is  a  servant  girl  to  do  evry 
thing  even  passing  your  food  to  you  on  a  tray. 
I  wish  you  could  come  to  visit  me.  I  stay  two 
months  in  a  place  and  get  broghut  up  there.  Aunt 
Beulah  is  peculiar  but  nice  when  you  know  her. 

48 


ELEANOR  ENJOYS  HERSELF 

She  is  stric  and  at  first  I  thought  we  was  not  going 
to  get  along.  She  thought  I  had  adenoids  and  I 
thought  she  dislikt  me  too  much,  but  it  turned 
out  not.  I  take  lessons  from  her  every  morning 
like  they  give  at  Rogers  College,  not  like  publick 
school.  I  have  to  think  what  I  want  to  do  a  good 
deal  and  then  do  it.  At  first  she  turned  me  loose 
to  enjoy  myself  and  I  could  not  do  it,  but  now  we 
have  disapline  which  makes  it  all  right.  My  speling 
is  weak,  but  uncle  Peter  says  Stevanson  could  not 
spel  and  did  not  care.  Stevanson  was  the  poat 
who  wrote  the  birdie  with  a  yellow  bill  in  the 
reader.  I  wish  you  would  tel  me  if  Grandma's 
eye  is  worse  and  what  about  Grandfather's  rheu- 
matism. 

"Your  fond  friend,  Eleanor. 

"P.  S.  We  have  a  silver  organ  in  all  the  rooms 
to  have  heat  in.  I  was  afrayd  of  them  at  first." 

In  the  letters  to  her  grandparents,  however,  the 
undercurrent  of  anxiety  about  the  old  people,  which 
was  a  ruling  motive  in  her  life,  became  apparent. 

"Dear  Grandma  and  Dear  Grandpa,"  she  wrote, 
"I  have  been  here  a  weak  now.     I  inclose  my 

49 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

salary,  fifteen  dollars  ($15.00)  which  I  hope  you 
will  like.  I  get  it  for  doing  evry  thing  I  am  told 
and  being  adoptid  besides.  You  can  tell  the  silect- 
men  that  I  am  rich  now  and  can  support  you  just 
as  good  as  Uncle  Amos.  I  want  Grandpa  to  buy 
some  heavy  undershurts  right  of.  He  will  get  a 
couff  if  he  doesn't  do  it.  Tell  him  to  rub  your  arm 
evry  night  before  you  go  to  bed,  Grandma,  and  to 
have  a  hot  soapstone  for  you.  If  you  don't  have 
your  bed  hot  you  will  get  newmonia  and  I  can't 
come  home  to  take  care  of  you,  becase  my  salary 
would  stop.  I  like  New  York  better  now  that  I 
have  lived  here  some.  I  miss  seeing  you  around, 
and  Grandpa. 

"The  cook  cooks  on  a  gas  stove  that  is  very 
funny.  I  asked  her  how  it  went  and  she  showed 
me  it.  She  is  going  to  leve,  but  lucky  thing  the 
hired  girl  can  cook  till  Aunt  Beulah  gets  a  nother 
cook  as  antyseptic  as  this  cook.  In  Rogers  College 
they  teach  ladies  to  have  their  cook's  and  hired 
girl's  antyseptic.  It  is  a  good  idear  becase  of 
sickness.  I  inclose  a  recipete  for  a  good  cake. 
You  can  make  it  sating  down.  You  don't  have 
to  stir  it  much,  and  Grandpa  can  bring  you  the 
things.  I  will  write  soon.  I  hope  you  are  all 

50 


ELEANOR  ENJOYS  HERSELF 

right.  Let  me  hear  that  you  are  all  right.  Don't 
forget  to  put  the  cat  out  nights.  I  hope  she  is 
all  right,  but  remember  the  time  she  stole  the  but- 
ter fish.  I  miss  you,  and  I  miss  the  cat  around. 
Uncle  David  pays  me  my  salary  out  of  his  own 
pocket,  because  he  is  the  richest,  but  I  like  Uncle 
Peter  the  best.  He  is  very  handsome  and  we  like 
to  talk  to  each  other  the  best.  Goodbye,  Eleanor." 

But  it  was  on  the  varicolored  pages  of  a  ruled 
tablet — with  a  picture  on  its  cover  of  a  pink 
cheeked  young  lady  beneath  a  cherry  tree,  and 
marked  in  large  straggling  letters  also  varicolored 
"The  Cherry  Blossom  Tablet" — that  Eleanor  put 
down  her  most  sacred  thoughts.  On  the  outside, 
just  above  the  cherry  tree,  her  name  was  written 
with  a  pencil  that  had  been  many  times  wet  to  get 
the  desired  degree  of  blackness,  "Eleanor  Hamlin, 
Colhassett,  Massachusetts.  Private  Dairy,"  and  on 
the  first  page  was  this  warning  in  the  same  pains- 
taking, heavily  shaded  chirography,  "This  book  is 
sacrid,  and  not  be  trespased  in  or  read  one  word  of. 
By  order  of  owner.  E.  H." 

It  was  the  private  diary  and  Gwendolyn,  the 
rabbit  doll,  and  a  small  blue  china  shepherdess 

51 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

given  her  by  Albertina,  that  constituted  Eleanor's 
lares  et  penates.  When  David  had  finally  succeeded 
in  tracing  the  ancient  carpetbag  in  the  lost  and 
found  department  of  the  cab  company,  Eleanor  was 
able  to  set  up  her  household  gods,  and  draw  from 
them  that  measure  of  strength  and  security  in- 
separable from  their  familiar  presence.  She  always 
slept  with  two  of  the  three  beloved  objects,  and 
after  Beulah  had  learned  to  understand  and  ap- 
preciate the  child's  need  for  unsupervised  privacy, 
she  divined  that  the  little  girl  was  happiest  when 
she  could  devote  at  least  an  hour  or  two  a  day  to  the 
transcribing  of  earnest  sentences  on  the  pink,  blue 
and  yellow  pages  of  the  Cherry  Blossom  Tablet, 
and  the  mysterious  games  that  she  played  with  the 
rabbit  doll.  That  these  games  consisted  largely  in 
making  the  rabbit  doll  impersonate  Eleanor,  while 
the  child  herself  became  in  turn  each  one  of  the 
six  uncles  and  aunts,  and  exhorted  the  victim  ac- 
cordingly, did  not  of  course  occur  to  Beulah.  It 
did  occur  to  her  that  the  pink,  blue  and  yellow 
pages  would  have  made  interesting  reading  to 
Eleanor's  guardians,  if  they  had  been  privileged  to 
read  all  that  was  chronicled  there. 


52 


ELEANOR  ENJOYS  HERSELF 

"My  aunt  Beulah  wears  her  hair  to  high  of  her 
forrid. 

"My  aunt  Margaret  wears  her  hair  to  slic  on  the 
sides. 

"My  aunt  Gertrude  wears  her  hair  just  about 
right. 

"My  aunt  Margaret  is  the  best  looking,  and  has 
the  nicest  way. 

"My  aunt  Gertrude  is  the  funniest.  I  never  laugh 
at  what  she  says,  but  I  have  trouble  not  to.  By 
thinking  of  Grandpa's  rheumaticks  I  stop  myself 
just  in  time.  Aunt  Beulah  means  all  right,  and 
wants  to  do  right  and  have  everybody  else  the 
same. 

"Uncle  David  is  not  handsome,  but  good. 

"Uncle  Jimmie  is  not  handsome,  but  his  hair 
curls. 

"Uncle  Peter  is  the  most  handsome  man  that  ere 
the  sun  shown  on.  That  is  poetry.  He  has  beau- 
tiful teeth,  and  I  like  him. 

"Yesterday  the  Wordsworth  Club — that's  what 
Uncle  Jimmie  calls  us  because  he  says  we  are  seven 
— went  to  the  Art  Museum  to  edjucate  me  in  art. 

"Aunt  Beulah  wanted  to  take  me  to  one  room 
and  keep  me  there  until  I  asked  to  come  out. 

53 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

Uncle  Jimmie  wanted  to  show  me  the  statures. 
Uncle  David  said  I  ought  to  begin  with  the  Ming 
period  and  work  down  to  Art  Newvoo.  Aunt? 
Gertrude  and  Margaret  wanted  to  take  me  to  thq 
room  of  the  great  masters.  While  they  were  talk- 
ing Uncle  Peter  and  I  went  to  see  a  picture  that 
made  me  cry.  I  asked  him  who  she  was.  He  said 
that  wasn't  the  important  thing,  that  the  important 
thing  was  that  one  man  had  nailed  his  dream.  He 
didn't  doubt  that  lots  of  other  painters  had,  but 
this  one  meant  the  most  to  him.  When  I  cried  he 
said,  'You're  all  right,  Baby.  You  know.'  Then 
he  reached  down  and  kissed  me." 

As  the  month  progressed,  it  seemed  to  Beulah 
that  she  was  making  distinct  progress  with  the 
child.  Since  the  evening  when  Peter  had  won 
Eleanor's  confidence  and  explained  her  mental  pro- 
cesses, her  task  had  been  illumined  for  her.  She 
belonged  to  that  class  of  women  in  whom  mater- 
nity arouses  late.  She  had  not  the  facile  sympathy 
which  accepts  a  relationship  without  the  endorse- 
ment of  the  understanding,  and  she  was  too  young 
to  have  much  toleration  for  that  which  was  not 
perfectly  clear  to  her. 

54 


ELEANOR  ENJOYS  HERSELF 

She  had  started  in  with  high  courage  to  dem- 
onstrate the  value  of  a  sociological  experiment. 
She  hoped  later,  though  these  hopes  she  had  so 
far  kept  to  herself,  to  write,  or  at  least  to  col- 
laborate with  some  worthy  educator,  on  a  book 
which  would  serve  as  an  exact  guide  to  other  phil- 
anthropically  inclined  groups  who  might  wish  to 
follow  the  example  of  cooperative  adoption;  but 
the  first  day  of  actual  contact  with  her  problem 
had  chilled  her.  She  had  put  nothing  down  in  her 
note-book.  She  had  made  no  scientific  progress. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  intellectual  response  in  the 
child. 

Peter  had  set  all  these  things  right  for  her.  He 
had  shown  her  the  child's  uncompromising  integrity 
of  spirit.  The  keynote  of  Beulah's  nature  was,  as 
Jimmie  said,  that  she  "had  to  be  shown."  Peter 
pointed  out  the  fact  to  her  that  Eleanor's  slogan  also 
was,  "No  compromise."  As  Eleanor  became  more 
familiar  with  her  surroundings  this  spirit  became 
more  and  more  evident. 

"I  could  let  down  the  hem  of  these  dresses, 
Aunt  Beulah,"  she  said  one  day,  looking  down  at 
the  long  stretch  of  leg  protruding  from  the  chic 
blue  frock  that  made  her  look  like  a  Boutet  de 


55 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

Monvil.  "I  can't  hem  very  good,  but  my  stitches 
don't  show  much." 

"That  dress  isn't  too  short,  dear.  It's  the  way 
little  girls  always  wear  them.  Do  little  girls  on 
Cape  Cod  wear  them  longer?"  . 

"Yes,  Aunt  Beulah." 

"How  long  do  they  wear  them?" 

"Albertina,"  they  had  reached  the  point  of  dis- 
cussion of  Albertina  now,  and  Beulah  was  proud 
of  it,  "wore  her  dresses  to  her  ankles,  be — because 
her — her  legs  was  so  fat.  She  said  that  mine  was 
— were  getting  to  be  fat  too,  and  it  wasn't  refined 
to  wear  short  dresses,  when  your  legs  were  fat." 

"There  are  a  good  many  conflicting  ideas  of 
refinement  in  the  world,  Eleanor,"  Beulah  said. 

"I've  noticed  there  are,  since  I  came  to  New 
York,"  Eleanor  answered  unexpectedly. 

Beulah's  academic  spirit  recognized  and  rejoiced 
in  the  fact  that  with  all  her  docility,  Eleanor  held 
firmly  to  her  preconceived  notions.  She  continued 
to  wear  her  dresses  short,  but  when  she  was  not 
actually  on  exhibition,  she  hid  her  long  legs  behind 
every  available  bit  of  furniture  or  drapery. 

The  one  doubt  left  in  her  mind,  of  the  child's 
initiative  and  executive  ability,  was  destined  to  be 

56 


ELEANOR  ENJOYS  HERSELF 

dissipated  by  the  rather  heroic  measures  sometimes 
resorted  to  by  a  superior  agency  taking  an  ironic 
hand  in  the  game  of  which  we  have  been  too 
inhumanly  sure. 

On  the  fifth  week  of  Eleanor's  stay  Beulah 
became  a  real  aunt,  the  cook  left,  and  her  own  aunt 
and  official  chaperon,  little  Miss  Prentis,  was  laid 
low  with  an  attack  of  inflammatory  rheumatism. 
Beulah's  excitement  on  these  various  counts,  com- 
bined with  indiscretions  in  the  matter  of  overshoes 
and  over  fatigue,  made  her  an  easy  victim  to  a  wan- 
dering grip  germ.  She  opened  her  eyes  one  morn- 
ing only  to  shut  them  with  a  groan  of  pain.  There 
was  an  ache  in  her  head  and  a  thickening  in  her 
chest,  the  significance  of  which  she  knew  only  too 
well.  She  found  herself  unable  to  rise.  She 
lifted  a  hoarse  voice  and  called  for  Mary,  the  maid, 
who  did  not  sleep  in  the  house  but  was  due  every 
morning  at  seven.  But  the  gentle  knock  on  the 
door  was  followed  by  the  entrance  of  Eleanor, 
not  Mary. 

"Mary  didn't  come,  Aunt  Beulah.  I  thought 
you  was — were  so  tired,  I'd  let  you  have  your  sleep 
out.  I  heard  Miss  Prentis  calling,  and  I  made 
her  some  gruel,  and  I  got  my  own  breakfast." 

57 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"Oh!  how  dreadful,"  Beulah  gasped  in  the  face 
of  this  new  calamity;  "and  I'm  really  so  sick.  I 
don't  know  what  we'll  do." 

Eleanor  regarded  her  gravely.  Then  she  put  a 
professional  hand  on  her  pulse  and  her  forehead. 

"You've  got  the  grip,"  she  announced. 

"I'm  afraid  I  have,  Eleanor,  and  Doctor  Martin's 
out  of  town,  and  won't  be  back  till  to-morrow 
when  he  comes  to  Aunt  Ann.  I  don't  know  what 
we'll  do." 

"I'll  tend  to  things,"  Eleanor  said.  "You  lie 
still  and  close  your  eyes,  and  don't  put  your  arms 
out  of  bed  and  get  chilled." 

"Well,  you'll  have  to  manage  somehow,"  Beulah 
moaned;  "how,  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  Give  Aunt 
Annie  her  medicine  and  hot  water  bags,  and  just 
let  me  be.  I'm  too  sick  to  care  what  happens." 

After  the  door  had  closed  on  the  child  a  dozen 
things  occurred  to  Beulah  that  might  have  been 
done  for  her.  She  was  vaguely  faint  for  her 
breakfast.  Her  feet  were  cold.  She  thought  of 
the  soothing  warmth  of  antiphlogistine  when  ap- 
plied to  the  chest.  She  thought  of  the  quinine  on 
the  shelf  in  the  bathroom.  Once  more  she  tried 
lifting  her  head,  but  she  could  not  accomplish  a 

58 


ELEANOR  ENJOYS  HERSELF 

sitting  posture.  She  shivered  as  a  draft  from  the 
open  window  struck  her. 

"If  I  could  only  be  taken  in  hand  this  morning," 
she  thought,  "I  know  it  could  be  broken." 

The  door  opened  softly.  Eleanor,  in  the  cook's 
serviceable  apron  of  gingham  that  would  have 
easily  contained  another  child  the  same  size,  swung 
the  door  open  with  one  hand  and  held  it  to  ac- 
commodate the  passage  of  the  big  kitchen  tray, 
deeply  laden  with  a  heterogeneous  collection  of 
objects.  She  pulled  two  chairs  close  to  the  bed- 
side and  deposited  her  burden  upon  them.  Then 
she  removed  from  the  tray  a  goblet  of  some 
steaming  fluid  and  offered  it  to  Beulah. 

"It's  cream  of  wheat  gruel,"  she  said,  and  added 
ingratiatingly :  "It  tastes  nice  in  a  tumbler." 

Beulah  drank  the  hot  decoction  gratefully  and 
found,  to  her  surprise,  that  it  was  deliciously  made. 

Eleanor  took  the  glass  away  from  her  and  placed 
it  on  the  tray,  from  which  she  took  what  looked 
to  Beulah  like  a  cloth  covered  omelet, — at  any 
rate,  it  was  a  crescent  shaped  article  slightly  yellow 
in  tone.  Eleanor  tested  it  with  a  finger. 

"It's  just  about  right,"  she  said.  Then  she  fixed 
Beulah  with  a  stern  eye.  "Open  your  chest,"  she 

59 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

commanded,  "and  show  me  the  spot  where  it's 
worst.  I've  made  a  meal  poultice." 

Beulah  hesitated  only  a  second,  then  she  obeyed 
meekly.  She  had  never  seen  a  meal  poultice  be- 
fore, but  the  heat  on  her  afflicted  chest  was  grate- 
ful to  her.  Antiphlogistine  was  only  Denver  mud 
anyhow.  Meekly,  also,  she  took  the  six  grains  of 
quinine  and  the  weak  dose  of  Jamaica  ginger  and 
water  that  she  was  next  offered.  She  felt  encour- 
aged and  refreshed  enough  by  this  treatment  to 
display  some  slight  curiosity  when  the  little  girl 
produced  a  card  of  villainous  looking  safety-pins. 

"I'm  going  to  pin  you  in  with  these,  Aunt  Beu- 
lah," she  said,  "and  then  sweat  your  cold  out  of 
you." 

"Indeed,  you're  not,"  Beulah  said;  "don't  be 
absurd,  Eleanor.  The  theory  of  the  grip  is — ," 
but  she  was  addressing  merely  the  vanishing  hem 
of  cook's  voluminous  apron. 

The  child  returned  almost  instantly  with  three 
objects  of  assorted  sizes  that  Beulah  could  not 
identify.  From  the  outside  they  looked  like  red 
flannel  and  from  the  way  Eleanor  handled  them 
it  was  evident  that  they  also  were  hot. 

"I  het — heated  the  flatirons,"  Eleanor  explained, 

60 


"the  way  I  do  for  Grandma,  and  I'm  going  to 
spread  'em  around  you,  after  you're  pinned  in  the 
blankets,  and  you  got  to  lie  there  till  you  prespire, 
and  prespire  good." 

"I  won't  do  it,"  Beulah  moaned,  "I  won't  do  any 
such  thing.  Go  away,  child." 

"I  cured  Grandma  and  Grandpa  and  Mrs.  O' Par- 
rel's aunt  that  I  worked  for,  and  I'm  going  to  cure 
you,"  Eleanor  said. 

"No." 

Eleanor  advanced  on  her  threateningly. 

"Put  your  arms  under  those  covers,"  she  said, 
"or  I'll  dash  a  glass  of  cold  water  in  your  face," — • 
and  Beulah  obeyed  her. 

Peter  nodded  wisely  when  Beulah,  cured  by  these 
summary  though  obsolete  methods,  told  the  story  in 
full  detail.  Gertrude  had  laughed  until  the  invalid 
had  enveloped  herself  in  the  last  few  shreds  of  her 
dignity  and  ordered  her  out  of  the  room,  and  the 
others  had  been  scarcely  more  sympathetic. 

"I  know  that  it's  funny,  Peter,"  she  said,  "but 
you  see,  I  can't  help  worrying  about  it  just  the 
same.  Of  course,  as  soon  as  I  was  up  she  was 
just  as  respectful  and  obedient  to  my  slightest  wish 
as  she  ever  was,  but  at  the  time,  when  she  was 

61 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

lording  it  over  me  so,  she — she  actually  slapped 
me.  You  never  saw  such  a — blazingly  determined 
little  creature." 

Peter  smiled, — gently,  as  was  Peter's  way  when 
any  friend  of  his  made  an  appeal  to  him. 

"That's  all  right,  Beulah,"  he  said,  "don't  you 
let  it  disturb  you  for  an  instant.  This  manifesta- 
tion had  nothing  to  do  with  our  experiment.  Our 
experiment  is  working  fine — better  than  I  dreamed 
it  would  ever  work.  What  happened  to  Eleanor, 
you  know,  was  simply  this.  Some  of  the  condi- 
tions of  her  experience  were  recreated  suddenly, 
and  she  reverted." 


CHAPTER  VI 
JIMMIE  BECOMES  A  PARENT 

THE  entrance  into  the  dining-room  of  the  curly 
headed  young  man  and  his  pretty  little  niece, 
who  had  a  suite  on  the  eighth  floor,  as  the  room 
clerk  informed  all  inquirers,  was  always  a  matter 
of  interest  to  the  residents  of  the  Hotel  Winchester. 
They  were  an  extremely  picturesque  pair  to  the 
eye  seeking  for  romance  and  color.  The  child  had 
the  pure,  clear  cut  features  of  the  cameo  type 
of  New  England  maidenhood.  She  was  always 
dressed  in  some  striking  combination  of  blue,  deep 
blue  like  her  eyes,  with  blue  hair  ribbons.  Her 
good-looking  young  relative,  with  hair  almost  as 
near  the  color  of  the  sun  as  her  own,  seemed  to  be 
entirely  devoted  to  her,  which,  considering  the 
charm  of  the  child  and  the  radiant  and  magnetic 
spirit  of  the  young  man  himself,  was  a  delightfully 
natural  manifestation. 

But  one  morning  near  the  close  of  the  second 
week  of  their  stay,  the  usual  radiation  of  resilient 
youth  was  conspicuously  absent  from  the  young 

63 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

man's  demeanor,  and  the  child's  face  reflected  the 
gloom  that  sat  so  incongruously  on  the  contour 
of  an  optimist.  The  little  girl  fumbled  her  menu 
card,  but  the  waitress — the  usual  aging  pedagogic 
type  of  the  small  residential  hotel — stood  unnoticed 
at  the  young  man's  elbow  for  some  minutes  before 
he  was  sufficiently  aroused  from  his  gloomy  medi- 
tations to  address  her.  When  he  turned  to  her  at 
last,  however,  it  was  with  the  grin  that  she  had 
grown  to  associate  with  him, — the  grin,  the  ab- 
sence of  which  had  kept  her  waiting  behind  his 
chair  with  a  patience  that  she  was,  except  in  a  case 
where  her  affections  were  involved,  entirely  incapa- 
ble of.  Jimmie's  protestations  of  inability  to  make 
headway  with  the  ladies  were  not  entirely  sincere. 

"Bring  me  everything  on  the  menu,"  he  said, 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand  in  the  direction  of  that 
painstaking  pasteboard.  "Coffee,  tea,  fruit,  mar- 
malade, breakfast  food,  ham  and  eggs.  Bring  my 
niece  here  the  same.  That's  all."  With  another 
wave  of  the  hand  he  dismissed  her. 

"You  can't  eat  it  all,  Uncle  Jimmie,"  Eleanor 
protested. 

"I'll  make  a   bet  with  you,"   Jimmie   declared. 

64 


JIMMIE  BECOMES  A  PARENT 

"I'll  bet  you  a  dollar  to  a  doughnut  that  if  she 
brings  it  all,  I'll  eat  it." 

"Oh!  Uncle  Jimmie,  you  know  she  won't  bring 
it.  You  never  bet  so  I  can  get  the  dollar, — you 
never  do." 

"I  never  bet  so  I  can  get  my  doughnut,  if  it 
comes  to  that." 

"I  don't  know  where  to  buy  any  doughnuts," 
Eleanor  said ;  "besides,  Uncle  Jimmie,  I  don't  really 
consider  that  I  owe  them.  I  never  really  say  that 
I'm  betting,  and  you  tell  me  I've  lost  before  I've 
made  up  my  mind  anything  about  it." 

"Speaking  of  doughnuts,"  Jimmie  said,  his  face 
still  wearing  the  look  of  dejection  under  a  grin 
worn  awry,  "can  you  cook,  Eleanor?  Can  you 
roast  a  steak,  and  saute  baked  beans,  and  stew 
sausages,  and  fry  out  a  breakfast  muffin?  Does 
she  look  like  a  cook  to  you?"  he  suddenly  de- 
manded of  the  waitress,  who  was  serving  him,  with 
an  apologetic  eye  on  the  menu,  the  invariable 
toast-coffee-and-three-minute-egg  breakfast  that  he 
had  eaten  every  morning  since  his  arrival. 

The  waitress  smiled  toothily.  "She  looks  like  a 
capable  one,"  she  pronounced. 

65 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"I  can  cook,  Uncle  Jimmie,"  Eleanor  giggled, 
"but  not  the  way  you  said.  You  don't  roast  steak, 
or— or— " 

•  "Don't  you?"  Jimmie  asked  with  the  expression 
of  pained  surprise  that  never  failed  to  make  his 
ward  wriggle  with  delight.  There  were  links  in 
the  educational  scheme  that  Jimmie  forged  better 
than  any  of  the  cooperative  guardians.  Not  even 
Jimmie  realized  the  value  of  the  giggle  as  a  de- 
veloping factor  in  Eleanor's  existence.  He  took 
three  swallows  of  coffee  and  frowned  into  his  cup. 
"I  can  make  coffee,"  he  added.  "Good  coffee 
Well,  we  may  as  well  look  the  facts  in  the  face, 
Eleanor.  The  jig's  up.  We're  moving  away  from 
this  elegant  hostelry  to-morrow." 

"Are  we?"   Eleanor  asked. 

"Yes,  Kiddo.  Apologies  to  Aunt  Beulah  (mustn't 
call  you  Kiddo)  and  the  reason  is,  that  I'm  broke. 
I  haven't  got  any  money  at  all,  Eleanor,  and  I 
don't  know  where  I  am  going  to  get  any.  You 
see,  it  is  this  way.  I  lost  my  job  six  weeks  ago." 

"But  you  go  to  work  every  morning,  Uncle 
Jimmie?" 

"I  leave  the  house,  that  is.  I  go  looking  for 
work,  but  so  far  no  nice  juicy  job  has  come  rolling 

66 


JIMMIE  BECOMES  A  PARENT 

down  into  my  lap.  I  haven't  told  you  this  before 
because, — well — when  Aunt  Beulah  comes  down 
every  day  to  give  you  your  lessons  I  wanted  it  to 
look  all  O.  K.  I  thought  if  you  didn't  know,  you 
couldn't  forget  sometime  and  tell  her." 

"I  don't  tattle  tale,"  Eleanor  said. 

"I  know  you  don't,  Eleanor.  It's  only  my  dog- 
gone pride  that  makes  me  want  to  keep  up  the 
bluff,  but  you're  a  game  kid, — you — know.  I  tried 
to  get  you  switched  off  to  one  of  the  others  till  I 
could  get  on  my  feet,  but — no,  they  just  thought 
I  had  stage  fright.  I  couldn't  insist.  It  would  be 
pretty  humiliating  to  me  to  admit  that  I  couldn't 
support  one-sixth  of  a  child  that  I'd  given  my 
solemn  oath  to  be-parent." 

"To— to  what?" 

"Be-parent,  if  it  isn't  a  word,  I  invent  it.  It's 
awfully  tough  luck  for  you,  and  if  you  want  me 
to  I'll  own  up  to  the  crowd  that  I  can't  swing 
you,  but  if  you  are  willing  to  stick,  why,  we'll  fix 
up  some  kind  of  a  way  to  cut  down  expenses  and 
bluff  it  out." 

Eleanor  considered  the  prospect.  Jimmie  watched 
her  apparent  hesitation  with  some  dismay. 

"Say  the  word,"  he  declared,  "and  I'll  tell  'em." 

67 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"Oh!  I  don't  want  you  to  tell  'em,"  Eleanor 
cried.  "I  was  just  thinking.  If  you  could  get  me 
a  place,  you  know,  I  could  go  out  to  work.  You 
don't  eat  very  much  for  a  man,  and  I  might  get 
my  meals  thrown  in — " 

"Don't,  Eleanor,,  don't,"  Jimmie  agonized.  "I've 
got  a  scheme  for  us  all  right.  This — this  embar- 
rassment is  only  temporary.  The  day  will  come 
when  I  can  provide  you  with  Pol  Roge  and 
diamonds.  My  father  is  rich,  you  know,  but  he 
swore  to  me  that  I  couldn't  support  myself,  and 
I  swore  to  him  that  I  could,  and  if  I  don't  do  it, 
I'm  damned.  I  am  really,  and  that  isn't  swearing." 

"I  know  it  isn't,  when  you  mean  it  the  way 
they  say  in  the  Bible." 

"I  don't  want  the  crowd  to  know.  I  don't  want 
Gertrude  to  know.  She  hasn't  got  much  idea  of  me 
anyway.  I'll  get  another  job,  if  I  can  only  hold 
out." 

"I  can  go  to  work  in  a  store,"  Eleanor  cried. 
"I  can  be  one  of  those  little  girls  in  black  dresses 
that  runs  between  counters." 

"Do  you  want  to  break  your  poor  Uncle  James' 
heart,  Eleanor, — do  you?" 

"No,  Uncle  Jimmie." 

68 


JIMMIE  BECOMES  A  PARENT 

"Then  listen  to  me.  I've  borrowed  a  studio,  a 
large  barnlike  studio  on  Washington  Square,  suit- 
ably equipped  with  pots  and  pans  and  kettles. 
Also,  I  am  going  to  borrow  the  wherewithal  to 
keep  us  going.  It  isn't  a  bad  kind  of  place  if  any- 
body likes  it.  There's  one  dinky  little  bedroom  for 
you  and  a  cot  bed  for  me,  choked  in  bagdad.  If 
you  could  kind  of  engineer  the  cooking  end  of  it, 
with  me  to  do  the  dirty  work,  of  course,  I  think 
we  could  be  quite  snug  and  cozy." 

"I  know  we  could,  Uncle  Jimmie,"  Eleanor  said. 
"Will  Uncle  Peter  come  to  see  us  just  the  same?" 

It  thus  befell  that  on  the  fourteenth  day  of  the 
third  month  of  her  residence  in  New  York, 
Eleanor  descended  into  Bohemia.  Having  no  least 
suspicion  of  the  real  state  of  affairs — for  Jimmie, 
'like  most  apparently  expansive  people  who  are 
given  to  rattling  nonsense,  was  actually  very  reti- 
cent about  his  own  business — the  other  members 
of  the  sextette  did  not  hesitate  to  show  their 
chagrin  and  disapproval  at  the  change  in  his  man- 
ner of  living. 

"The  Winchester  was  an  ideal  place  for 
Eleanor,"  Beulah  wailed.  "It's  deadly  respectable 
and  middle  class,  but  it  was  just  the  kind  c* 

69 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

atmosphere  for  her  to  accustom  herself  to.  She 
was  learning  to  manage  herself  so  prettily.  This 
morning  when  I  went  to  the  studio — I  wanted  to 
get  the  lessons  over  early,  and  take  Eleanor  to 
see  that  exhibition  of  Bavarian  dolls  at  Kuhner's— •> 
I  found  her  washing  up  a  trail  of  dishes  in  that 
closet  behind  the  screen — you've  seen  it,  Gertrude? 
— like  some  poor  little  scullery  maid.  She  said 
that  Jimmie  had  made  an  omelet  for  breakfast. 
If  he'd  made  fifty  omelets  there  couldn't  have 
been  a  greater  assortment  of  dirty  dishes  and 
kettles." 

Gertrude  smiled. 

"Jimmie  made  an  omelet  for  me  once  for 
which  he  used  two  dozen  eggs.  He  kept  breaking 
them  until  he  found  the  yolks  of  a  color  to  suit 
him.  He  said  pale  yolks  made  poor  omelets,  so 
he  threw  all  the  pale  ones  away." 

"I  suppose  that  you  sat  by  and  let  him,"  Beulah 
said.  "You  would  let  Jimmie  do  anything.  You're 
as  bad  as  Margaret  is  about  David." 

"Or  as  bad  as  you  are  about  Peter." 

"There  we  go,  just  like  any  silly,  brainless  girls, 
whose  chief  object  in  life  is  the — the  other  sex," 

70 


JIMMIE  BECOMES  A  PARENT 

Beulah  cried  inconsistently.  "Oh!  I  hate  that 
kind  of  thing." 

"So  do  I — in  theory — "  Gertrude  answered,  a 
little  dreamily.  "Where  do  Jimmie  and  Eleanor 
get  the  rest  of  their  meals?" 

"I  can't  seem  to  find  out,"  Beulah  said.  "I 
asked  Eleanor  point-blank  this  morning  what  they 
had  to  eat  last  night  and  where  they  had  it,  and 
she  said,  That's  a  secret,  Aunt  Beulah.'  When  I 
asked  her  why  it  was  a  secret  and  who  it  was  a 
secret  with,  she  only  looked  worried,  and  said  she 
guessed  she  wouldn't  talk  about  it  at  all  because 
that  was  the  only  way  to  be  safe  about  tattling. 
You  know  what  I  think — I  think  Jimmie  is  taking 
her  around  to  the  cafes  and  all  the  shady  ex- 
travagant restaurants.  He  thinks  it's  sport  and  it 
keeps  him  from  getting  bored  with  the  child." 

"Well,  that's  one  way  of  educating  the  young," 
Gertrude  said,  "but  I  think  you  are  wrong, 
Beulah." 


CHAPTER  VII 
ONE  DESCENT  INTO  BOHEMIA 

U  A  UNT  BEULAH  does  not  think  that  Uncle 
JL~JL  Jimmie  is  bringing  me  up  right,"  Eleanor 
confided  to  the  pages  of  her  diary.  "She  comes 
down  here  and  is  very  uncomforterble.  Well  he 
is  bringing  me  up  good,  in  some  ways  better  than 
she  did.  When  he  swears  he  always  puts  out  his 
hand  for  me  to  slap  him.  He  had  enough  to 
swear  of.  He  can't  get  any  work  or  earn  wages. 
The  advertisement  business  is  on  the  bum  this  year 
becase  times  are  so  hard  up.  The  advertisers 
have  to  save  their  money  and  advertising  agents 
are  failing  right  and  left.  So  poor  Uncle  Jimmie 
can't  get  a  place  to  work  at. 

"The  people  in  the  other  studios  are  very  neigh- 
borly. Uncle  Jimmie  leaves  a  sine  on  the  door 
when  he  goes  out.  It  says  'Don't  Knock.'  They 
don't  they  come  right  in  and  borrow  things.  Uncle 
Jimmie  says  not  to  have  much  to  do  with  them, 
becase  they  are  so  queer,  but  when  I  am  not  at 
home,  the  ladies  come  to  call  on  him,  and  drink 

72 


ONE  DESCENT  INTO  BOHEMIA 

Moxie  or  something.  I  know  becase  once  I 
caught  them.  Uncle  Jimmie  says  I  shall  not  have 
Behemiar  thrust  upon  me  by  him,  and  to  keep 
away  from  these  ladies  until  I  grow  up  and  then 
see  if  I  like  them.  Aunt  Beulah  thinks  that  Uncle 
Jimmie  takes  me  around  to  other  studios  and  I 
won't  tell  but  he  does  not  take  me  anywhere 
except  to  walk  and  have  ice-cream  soda,  but 
I  say  I  don't  want  it  becase  of  saving  the  ten 
cents.  We  cook  on  an  old  gas  stove  that  smells. 
I  can't  do  very  good  housekeeping  becase  things 
are  not  convenient.  I  haven't  any  oven  to  do  a 
Saturday  baking  in,  and  Uncle  Jimmie  won't  let 
me  do  the  washing.  I  should  feel  more  as  if  I 
earned  my  keap  if  I  baked  beans  and  made  boiled 
dinners  and  layer  cake,  but  in  New  York  they 
don't  eat  much  but  hearty  food  and  saluds.  It 
isn't  stylish  to  have  cake  and  pie  and  pudding  all 
at  one  meal.  Poor  Grandpa  would  starve.  He  eats 
pie  for  his  breakfast,  but  if  I  told  anybody  they 
would  laugh.  If  I  wrote  Albertina  what  folks  eat 
in  New  York  she  would  laugh. 

"Uncle  Jimmie  is  teaching  me  to  like  salud.  He 
laughs  when  I  cut  up  lettice  and  put  sugar  on  it. 
He  teaches  me  to  like  olives  and  dried  up 

73 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

sausages  and  sour  crought.  He  says  it  is  important 
to  be  edjucated  in  eating,  and  everytime  we  go  to 
the  Delicate  Essenn  store  to  buy  something  that 
will  edjucate  me  better.  He  teaches  me  to  say  'I 
beg  your  pardon/  and  'Polly  vous  Fransay?'  and 
to  courtesy  and  how  to  enter  a  room  the  way  you 
do  in  private  theatricals.  He  says  it  isn't  knowing 
these  things  so  much  as  knowing  when  you  do 
them  that  counts,  and  then  Aunt  Beulah  complains 
that  I  am  not  being  brought  up. 

"I  have  not  seen  Uncle  Peter  for  a  weak.  He 
said  he  was  going  away.  I  miss  him.  I  would  not 
have  to  tell  him  how  I  was  being  brought  up,  and 
whether  I  was  hitting  the  white  lights  as  Uncle 
Jimmie  says. — He  would  know." 

Eleanor  did  not  write  Albertina  during  the  time 
when  she  was  living  in  the  studio.  Some  curious 
inversion  of  pride  kept  her  silent  on  the  subject 
of  the  change  in  her  life.  Albertina  would  have 
turned  up  her  nose  at  the  studio,  Eleanor  knew. 
Therefore,  she  would  not  so  much  as  address  an 
envelope  to  that  young  lady  from  an  interior  which 
she  would  have  beheld  with  scorn.  She  held  long 
conversations  with  Gwendolyn,  taking  the  part  of 

74 


ONE  DESCENT  INTO  BOHEMIA 

Albertina,  on  the  subject  of  this  snobbishness  of 
attitude. 

"Lots  of  people  in  New  York  have  to  live  in 
little  teny,  weeny  rooms,  Albertina,"  she  would 
say.  "Rents  are  perfectly  awful  here.  This  studio 
is  so  big  I  get  tired  dusting  all  the  way  round  it, 
and  even  if  it  isn't  furnished  very  much,  why,  think 
how  much  furnishing  would  cost,  and  carpets  and 
gold  frames  for  the  pictures!  The  pictures  that 
are  in  here  already,  without  any  frames,  would 
sell  for  hundreds  of  dollars  apiece  if  the  painter 
could  get  anybody  to  buy  them.  You  ought  to  be 
very  thankful  for  such  a  place,  Albertina,  instead 
of  feeling  so  stuck  up  that  you  pick  up  your  skirts 
from  it." 

But  Albertina's  superiority,  of  mind  was  im- 
pregnable. Her  spirit  sat  in  judgment  on  all  the 
conditions  of  Eleanor's  new  environment.  She 
seemed  to  criticize  everything.  She  hated  the 
nicked,  dun  colored  dishes  they  ate  from,  and  the 
black  bottomed  pots  and  pans  that  all  the  energy 
of  Eleanor's  energetic  little  elbow  could  not  re- 
store to  decency  again.  She  hated  the  cracked,  dun 

75 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

colored  walls,  and  the  mottled  floor  that  no  amount 
of  sweeping  and  dusting  seemed  to  make  an  im- 
pression on.  She  hated  the  compromise  of  house- 
keeping in  an  a^tic, — she  who  had  been  bred  in  an 
atmosphere  of  shining  nickle-plated  ranges  and 
linoleum,  where  even  the  kitchen  pump  gleamed 
brightly  under  its  annual  coat  of  good  green  paint. 
She  hated  the  compromise,  that  was  the  burden 
of  her  complaint — either  in  the  person  of  Albertina 
or  Gwendolyn,  whether  she  lay  in  the  crook  of 
Eleanor's  arm  in  the  lumpy  bed  where  she  re- 
posed at  the  end  of  the  day's  labor,  or  whether 
she  sat  bolt  upright  on  the  lumpy  cot  in  the  studio, 
the  broken  bisque  arm,  which  Jimmie  insisted  on 
her  wearing  in  a  sling  whenever  he  was  present, 
dangling  limply  at  her  side  in  the  relaxation 
Eleanor  preferred  for  it. 

The  fact  of  not  having  adequate  opportunity  to 
keep  her  house  in  order  troubled  the  child,  for 
her  days  were  zealously  planned  by  her  enthu- 
siastic guardians.  Beulah  came  at  ten  o'clock  every 
morning  to  give  her  lessons.  As  Jimmie's  quest 
for  work  grew  into  a  more  and  more  dishearten- 
ing adventure,  she  had  difficulty  in  getting  him  out 
of  bed  in  time  to  prepare  and  clear  away  the 

76 


ONE  DESCENT  INTO  BOHEMIA 

breakfast  for  Beulah's  arrival.  After  lunch,  to 
which  Jimmie  scrupulously  came  home,  she  was 
supposed  to  work  an  hour  at  her  modeling  clay. 
Gertrude,  who  was  doing  very  promising  work  at 
the  art  league,  came  to  the  studio  twice  a  week  to 
give  her  instruction  in  handling  it.  Later  in  the 
afternoon  one  of  the  aunts  or  uncles  usually  ap- 
peared with  some  scheme  to  divert  her.  Margaret 
was  telling  her  the  stories  of  the  Shakespeare 
plays,  and  David  was  trying  to  make  a  card  player 
of  her,  but  was  not  succeeding  as  well  as  if 
Albertina  had  not  been  brought  up  a  hard  shell 
Baptist,  who  thought  card  playing  a  device  of  the 
devil's.  Peter  alone  did  not  come,  for  even  when 
he  was  in  town  he  was  busy  in  the  afternoon. 

As  soon  as  her  guests  were  gone,  Eleanor  hur- 
ried through  such  housewifely  tasks  as  were  pos- 
sible of  accomplishment  at  that  hour,  but  the 
strain  was  telling  on  her.  Jimmie  began  to  realize 
this  and  it  added  to  his  own  distress.  One  night 
to  save  her  the  labor  of  preparing  the  meal,  he 
took  her  to  an  Italian  restaurant  in  the  neighbor- 
hood where  the  food  was  honest  and  palatable, 
and  the  service  at  least  deft  and  clean. 

Eleanor  enjoyed  the  experience  extremely,  until 

77 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

*» 

an  incident  occurred  which  robbed  her  evening  of 
its  sweetness  and  plunged  her  into  the  purgatory 
of  the  child  who  has  inadvertently  broken  one  of 
its  own  laws. 

Among  the  belongings  in  the  carpetbag,  which 
was  no  more — having  been  supplanted  by  a  smart 
little  suit-case  marked  with  her  initials — was  a 
certificate  from  the  Massachusetts  Total  Abstinence 
Society,  duly  signed  by  herself,  and  witnessed  by 
the  grammar-school  teacher  and  the  secretary  of 
the  organization.  On  this  certificate  (which  was 
decorated  by  many  presentations  in  dim  black  and 
white  of  mid- Victorian  domestic  life,  and  sur- 
mounted by  a  collection  of  scalloped  clouds  in 
which  drifted  three  amateur  looking  angels  amid 
a  crowd  of  more  professional  cherubim)  Eleanor 
had  pledged  herself  to  abstain  from  the  use  as  a 
beverage  of  all  intoxicating  drinks,  and  from  the 
manufacture  or  traffic  in  them.  She  had  also 
subscribed  herself  as  willing  to  make  direct  and 
persevering  efforts  to  extend  the  principles  and 
blessings  of  total  abstinence. 

"Red  ink,  Andrea,"  her  Uncle  Jimmie  had  de- 
manded, as  the  black-eyed  waiter  bent  over  him, 
"and  ginger  ale  for  the  offspring."  Eleanor  giggled. 

78 


ONE  DESCENT  INTO  BOHEMIA 

It  was  fun  to  be  with  Uncle  Jimmie  in  a  restaurant 
again.  He  always  called  for  something  new  and 
unexpected  when  he  spoke  of  her  to  the  waiter, 
and  he  was  always  what  Albertina  would  consider 
"very  comical"  when  he  talked  to  him.  "But 
stay,"  he  added  holding  up  an  admonitory  finger, 
"I  think  we'll  give  the  little  one  eau  rougie  this 
time.  Wouldn't  you  like  eau  rougie,  tinted  water, 
Eleanor,  the  way  the  French  children  drink  it?" 

Unsuspectingly  she  sipped  the  mixture  of  water 
and  ice  and  sugar,  and  "red  ink"  from  the  big 
brown  glass  bottle  that  the  glowing  waiter  set 
before  them. 

As  the  meal  progressed  Jimmie  told  her  that  the 
grated  cheese  was  sawdust  and  almost  made  her 
believe  it.  He  showed  her  how  to  eat  spaghetti 
without  cutting  it  and  pointed  out  to  her  various 
Italian  examples  of  his  object  lesson;  but  she  soon 
realized  that  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  entertain  her, 
he  was  really  very  unhappy. 

"I've  borrowed  all  the  money  I  can,  Angelface," 
he  confessed  finally.  "To-morrow's  the  last  day  of 
grace.  If  I  don't  land  that  job  at  the  Perkins 
agency  I'll  have  to  give  in  and  tell  Peter  and 
David,  or  wire  Dad." 

79 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"You  could  get  some  other  kind  of  a  job," 
Eleanor  said;  "plumbing  or  clerking  or  some- 
thing." On  Cape  Cod  the  plumber  and  the  gro- 
cer's clerk  lost  no  caste  because  of  their  calling. 
"Couldn't  you?" 

"I  could  so  demean  myself,  and  I  will.  I'll  be 
a  chauffeur,  I  can  run  a  car  all  right;  but  the  fact 
remains  that  by  to-morrow  something's  got  to  hap- 
pen, or  I've  got  to  own  up  to  the  bunch." 

Eleanor's  heart  sank.  She  tried  hard  to  think 
of  something  to  comfort  him  but  she  could  not. 
Jimmie  mixed  her  more  eau  rougie  and  she  drank 
it.  He  poured  a  full  glass,  undiluted,  for  himself, 
and  held  it  up  to  the  light. 

"Well,  here's  to  crime,  daughter,"  he  said.  "Long 
may  it  wave,  and  us  with  it." 

"That  isn't  really  red  ink,  is  it?"  she  asked.  "It's 
an  awfully  pretty  color — like  grape  juice." 

"It  is  grape  juice,  my  child,  if  we  don't  inquire 
too  closely  into  the  matter.  The  Italians  are  like 
the  French  in  the  guide  book,  'fond  of  dancing 
and  light  wines.'  This  is  one  of  the  light  wines 
they  are  fond  of. — Hello,  do  you  feel  sick,  child? 
You're  white  as  a  ghost.  It's  the  air.  As  soon  as 

80 


"That  isn't  really  red  ink,  is  it?"  she  asked 


ONE  DESCENT  INTO  BOHEMIA 

I  can  get  hold  of  that  sacrificed  waiter  we'll  get 
out  of  here." 

Eleanor's  sickness  was  of  the  spirit,  but  at  the 
moment  she  was  incapable  of  telling  him  so,  in- 
capable of  any  sort  of  speech.  A  great  wave  of 
faintness  encompassed  her.  She  had  broken  her 
pledge.  She  had  lightly  encouraged  a  departure 
from  the  blessings  and  principles  of  total  ab- 
stinence. 

That  night  in  her  bed  she  made  a  long  and  im- 
passioned apology  to  her  Maker  for  the  sin  of  in- 
temperance into  which  she  had  been  so  unwittingly 
betrayed.  She  promised  Him  that  she  would  never 
drink  anything  that  came  out  of  a  bottle  again. 
She  reviewed  sorrowfully  her  many  arguments  with 
Albertina — Albertina  in  the  flesh  that  is — on  the 
subject  of  bottled  drinks  in  general,  and  decided 
that  again  that  virtuous  child  was  right  in  her  con- 
demnation of  any  drink,  however  harmless  in  ap- 
pearance or  nomenclature,  that  bore  the  stigma  of 
a  bottled  label. 

She  knew,  however,  that  something  more  than 
a  prayer  for  forgiveness  was  required  of  her.  She 
was  pledged  to  protest  against  the  evil  that  she 

81 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

had  seemingly  countenanced.  She  could  not  seek 
the  sleep  of  the  innocent  until  that  reparation  was 
made.  Through  the  crack  of  her  sagging  door 
she  saw  the  light  from  Jimmie's  reading  lamp  and 
knew  that  he  was  still  dressed,  or  clothed  at  least, 
with  a  sufficient  regard  for  the  conventionalities 
to-  permit  her  intrusion.  She  rose  and  rebraided 
her  hair  and  tied  a  daytime  ribbon  on  it.  Then 
she  put  on  her  stockings  and  her  blue  Japanese 
kimono — real  Japanese,  as  Aunt  Beulah  explained, 
made  for  a  Japanese  lady  of  quality — and  made 
her  way  into  the  studio. 

Jimmie  was  not  sitting  in  the  one  comfortable 
studio  chair  with  his  book  under  the  light  and  his 
feet  on  the  bamboo  tea  table  as  usual.  He  was  not 
sitting  up  at  all.  He  was  flung  on  the  couch  with 
his  face  buried  in  the  cushions,  and  his  shoulders 
were  shaking.  Eleanor  seeing  him  thus,  forgot 
her  righteous  purpose,  forgot  her  pledge  to 
disseminate  the  principles  and  blessings  of  ab- 
stinence, forgot  everything  but  the  pitiful  spectacle 
of  her  gallant  Uncle  Jimmie  in  grief.  She  stood 
looking  down  at  him  without  quite  the  courage  to 
kneel  at  his  side  to  give  him  comfort. 

"Uncle  Jimmie,"  she  said,  "Uncle  Jimmie." 

82 


At  the  sound  of  her  voice  he  put  out  his  hand 
to  her,  gropingly,  but  he  did  not  uncover  his  face 
or  shift  his  position.  She  found  herself  smooth- 
ing his  hair,  gingerly  at  first,  but  with  more  and 
more  conviction  as  he  snuggled  his  boyish  head 
closer. 

"I'm  awfully  discouraged,"  he  said  in  a  weak 
muffled  voice.  "I'm  sorry  you  caught  me  at  it, 
Baby." 

Eleanor  put  her  face  down  close  to  his  as  he 
turned  it  to  her. 

"Everything  will  be  all  right,"  she  promised 
him,  "everything  will  be  all  right.  You'll  soon 
get  a  job — to-morrow  maybe." 

Then  she  gathered  him  close  in  her  angular, 
tense  little  arms  and  held  him  there  tightly. 
"Everything  will  be  all  right,"  she  repeated  sooth- 
ingly; "now  you  just  put  your  head  here,  and  have 
your  cry  out." 


CHAPTER  VIII 
TEN  HUTCHINSONS 


4  6  "It  M'Y  Aunt  Margaret  has  a  great  many  people 
J.T  JL  living  in  her  family,"  Eleanor  wrote  to 
Albertina  from  her  new  address  on  Morningside 
Heights.  "She  has  a  mother  and  a  father,  and  two 
(2)  grandparents,  one  (1)  aunt,  one  (1)  brother, 
one  (1)  married  lady  and  the  boy  of  the  lady,  I 
think  the  married  lady  is  a  sister  but  I  do  not  ask 
any  one,  oh  —  and  another  brother,  who  does  not 
live  here  only  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays.  Aunt 
Margaret  makes  ten,  and  they  have  a  man  to  wait 
on  the  table.  His  name  is  a  butler.  I  guess  you 
have  read  about  them  in  stories.  I  am  taken  right 
in  to  be  one  of  the  family,  and  I  have  a  good  time 
every  day  now.  Aunt  Margaret's  father  is  a  col- 
lege teacher,  and  Aunt  Margaret's  grandfather 
looks  like  the  father  of  his  country.  You  know 
who  I  mean  George  Washington.  They  have  a 
piano  here  that  plays  itself  like  a  sewing  machine. 
They  let  me  do  it.  They  have  after-dinner  coffee 
and  gold  spoons  to  it.  I  guess  you  would  like  to  see 
a  gold  spoon.  I  did.  They  are  about  the  size  of 

84 


THE  TEN  HUTCHINSONS 

the  tin  spoons  we  had  in  our  playhouse.  I  have  a 
lot  of  fun  with  that  boy  too.  At  first  I  thought 
he  was  very  affected,  but  that  is  just  the  way  they 
teach  him  to  talk.  He  is  nine  and  plays  tricks  on 
other  people.  He  dares  me  to  do  things  that  I 
don't  do,  like  go  down-stairs  and  steal  sugar.  If 
Aunt  Margaret's  mother  was  my  grandma  I  might 

• 

steal  sugar  or  plum  cake.  I  don't  know.  Remem- 
ber the  time  we  took  your  mother's  hermits?  I 
do.  I  would  like  to  see  you.  You  would  think 
this  house  was  quite  a  grand  house.  It  has  three 
(3)  flights  of  stairs  and  one  basement.  I  sleep 
on  the  top  floor  in  a  dressing  room  out  of  Aunt 
Margaret's  only  it  isn't  a  dressing  room.  I  dress 
there  but  no  one  else  can.  Aunt  Margaret  is 
pretty  and  sings  lovely.  Uncle  David  comes  here 
a  lot.  I  must  close.  With  love  and  kisses." 

In  her  diary  she  recorded  some  of  the  more  in- 
timate facts  of  her  new  existence,  such  facts  as 
she  instinctively  guarded  from  Albertina's  calcu- 
lating sense. 

"Everybody  makes  fun  of  me  here.  ,  I  don't 
care  if  they  do,  but  I  can't  eat  so  much  at  the 

85 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

table  when  every  one  is  laughing  at  me.  They  get 
me  to  talking  and  then  they  laugh.  If  I  could 
see  anything  to  laugh  at,  I  would  laugh  too.  They 
laugh  in  a  refined  way  but  they  laugh.  They  call 
me  Margaret's  protegay.  They  are  good  to  me 
too.  They  say  to  my  face  that  I  am  like  a  merry 
wilkins  story  and  too  good  to  be  true,  and  New 
England  projuces  lots  of  real  art,  and  I  am  art, 
I  can't  remember  all  the  things,  but  I  guess  they 
mean  well.  Aunt  Margaret's  grandfather  sits  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  and  talks  about  things  I 
never  heard  of  before.  He  knows  the  govoner 
and  does  not  like  the  way  he  parts  his  hair.  I 
thought  all  govoners  did  what  they  wanted  to 
with  their  hairs  or  anything  and  people  had  to  like 
it  because  (I  used  to  spell  because  wrong  but  I 
spell  better  now)  they  was  the  govoners,  but  it 
seems  not  at  all. 

"Aunt  Margaret  is  lovely  to  me.  We  have 
good  times.  I  meant  to  like  Aunt  Beulah  the 
best  because  she  has  done  the  most  for  me  but  I 
am  afrayd  I  don't.  I  would  not  cross  my  heart 
and  say  so.  Aunt  Margaret  gives  me  the  lessons 
now.  I  guess  I  learn  most  as  much  as  I  learned 
I  mean  was  taught  of  Aunt  Beulah.  Oh  dear 


85 


THE  TEN  HUTCHINSONS 

sometimes  I  get  descouraged  on  account  of  its 
being  such  a  funny  world  and  so  many  diferent 
people  in  it.  And  so  many  diferent  feelings.  I 
was  afrayd  of  the  hired  butler,  but  I  am  not  now." 

Eleanor  had  not  made  a  direct  change  from  the 
Washington  Square  studio  to  the  ample  house  of 
the  Hutchinsons,  and  it  was  as  well  for  her  that  a 
change  in  Jimmie's  fortunes  had  taken  her  back 
to  the  Winchester  and  enabled  her  to.  accustom 
herself  again  to  the  amenities  of  gentler  living. 
Like  all  sensitive  and  impressionable  children  she 
took  on  the  color  of  a  new  environment  very 
quickly.  The  strain  of  her  studio  experience  had 
left  her  a  little  cowed  and  unsure  of  herself,  but 
she  had  brightened  up  like  a  flower  set  in  the  cheer- 
ful surroundings  of  the  Winchester  and  under  the 
influence  of  Jimmie's  restored  spirits. 

The  change  had  come  about  on  Jimmie's  "last 
day  of  grace."  He  had  secured  the  coveted  po- 
sition at  the  Perkins  agency  at  a  slight  advance 
over  the  salary  he  had  received  at  the  old  place. 
He  had  left  Eleanor  in  the  morning  determined  to 
face  becomingly  the  disappointment  that  was  in 
store  for  him,  and  to  accept  the  bitter  necessity  of 

87 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

admitting  his  failure  to  his  friends.  He  had  come 
back  in  the  late  afternoon  with  his  fortunes  re- 
stored, the  long  weeks  of  humiliation  wiped  out, 
and  his  life  back  again  on  its  old  confident  and 
inspired  footing. 

He  had  burst  into  the  studio  with  his  news  be- 
fore he  understood  that  Eleanor  was  not  alone, 
and  inadvertently  shared  the  secret  with  Gertrude, 
who  had  been  waiting  for  him  with  the  kettle 
alight  and  some  wonderful  cakes  from  "Henri's" 
spread  out  on  the  tea  table.  The  three  had  cele- 
brated by  dining  together  at  a  festive  down-town 
hotel  and  going  back  to  his  studio  for  coffee.  At 
parting  they  had  solemnly  and  severally  kissed 
one  another.  Eleanor  lay  awake  in  the  dark  for 
a  long  time  that  night  softly  rubbing  the  cheek 
that  had  been  so  caressed,  and  rejoicing  that  the 
drink  Uncle  Jimmie  had  called  a  high-ball  and  had 
pledged  their  health  with  so  assiduously,  had  come 
out  of  two  glasses  instead  of  a  bottle. 

Her  life  at  the  Hutchinsons'  was  almost  like  a 
life  on  another  planet.  Margaret  was  the  younger, 
somewhat  delicate  daughter  of  a  family  of  rather 
strident  academics.  Professor  Hutchinson  was  not 
dependent  on  his  salary  to  defray  the  expenses  of 

88 


THE  TEN  HUTCHINSONS 

his  elegant  establishment,  but  on  his  father,  who 
had  inherited  from  his  father  in  turn  the  sub- 
stantial fortune  on  which  the  family  was  founded. 

Margaret  was  really  a  child  of  the  fairies,  but 
she  was-  considerably  more  fortunate  in  her  choice 
of  a  foster  family  than  is  usually  the  fate  of  the 
foundling.  The  rigorous  altitude  of  intellect  in 
which  she  was  reared  served  as  a  corrective  to  the 
oversensitive  quality  of  her  imagination. 

Eleanor,  who  in  the  more  leisurely  moments  of 
her  life  was  given  to  visitations  from  the  poetic 
muse,  was  inspired  to  inscribe  some  lines  to  her  on 
one  of  the  pink  pages  of  the  private  diary.  They 
ran  as  follows,  and  even  Professor  Hutchinson, 
who  occupied  the  chair  of  English  in  that  urban 
community  of  learning  that  so  curiously  bisects 
the  neighborhood  of  Harlem,  could  not  have  des- 
ignated Eleanor's  description  of  his  daughter  as 
one  that  did  not  describe. 

"Aunt  Margaret  is  fair  and  kind, 

And  very  good  and  tender. 
She  has  a  very  active  mind. 
Her  figure  is  quite  slender. 


89 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"She  moves  around  the  room  with  grace, 

Her  hands  she  puts  with  quickness. 
Although  she  wears  upon  her  face 
The  shadow  of  a  sickness." 

It  was  this  "shadow  of  a  sickness,"  that  served 
to  segregate  Margaret  to  the  extent  that  was 
really  necessary  for  her  well  being.  To  have 
shared  perpetually  in  the  almost  superhuman  ac- 
tivities of  the  family  might  have  forever  dulled 
that  delicate  spirit  to  which  Eleanor  came  to  owe 
so  much  in  the  various  stages  of  her  development. 

Margaret  put  her  arm  about  the  child  after  the 
ordeal  of  the  first  dinner  at  the  big  table. 

"Father  does  not  bite,"  she  said,  "but  Grand- 
father does.  The  others  are  quite  harmless.  If 
Grandfather  shows  his  teeth,  run  for  your  life." 

"I  don't  know  where  to  run  to,"  Eleanor 
answered  seriously,  whereupon  Margaret  hugged 
her.  Her  Aunt  Margaret  would  have  been 
puzzling  to  Eleanor  beyond  any  hope  of  extrica- 
tion, but  for  the  quick  imagination  that  unwound 
her  riddles  almost  as  she  presented  them.  For  one 
terrible  minute  Eleanor  had  believed  that  Hugh 

90 


THE  TEN  HUTCHINSONS 

Hutchinson  senior  did  bite,  he  looked  so  much  like 
some  of  the  worst  of  the  pictures  in  Little  Red 
Riding  Hood. 

"While  you  are  here  I'm  going  to  pretend  you're 
my  very  own  child,"  Margaret  told  Eleanor  that 
first  evening,  "and  we'll  never,  never  tell  anybody 
all  the  foolish  games  we  play  and  the  things  we 
say  to  each  other.  I  can  just  barely  manage  to  be 
grown  up  in  the  bosom  of  my  family,  and  when  I 
am  in  the  company  of  your  esteemed  Aunt  Beulah, 
but  up  here  in  my  room,  Eleanor,  I  am  never  grown 
up.  I  play  with  dolls." 

"Oh!  do  you  really?" 

"I  really  do,"  Margaret  said.  She  opened  a 
funny  old  chest  in  the  corner  of  the  spacious,  high 
studded  chamber.  "And  here  are  some  of  the 
dolls  that  I  play  with."  She  produced  a  manikin 
dressed  primly  after  the  manner  of  eighteen-thirty, 
prim  parted  hair  over  a  small  head  festooned  with 
ringlets,  a  fichu,  and  mits  painted  on  her  fingers. 
"Beulah,"  she  said  with  a  mischievous  flash  of  a 
grimace  at  Eleanor.  "Gertrude," — a  dashing  young 
brunette  in  riding  clothes.  "Jimmie," — a  curly 
haired  dandy.  "David," — a  serious  creature  with 

91 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

a  monocle.  "I  couldn't  find  Peter,"  she  said,  "but 
we'll  make  him  some  day  out  of  cotton  and  water 
colors." 

"Oh!  can  you  make  dolls?"  Eleanor  cried  in 
delight,  "real  dolls  with  hair  and  different  colored 
eyes  ?" 

"I  can  make  pretty  good  ones,"  Margaret 
smiled ;  "manikins  like  these,  —  a  Frenchwoman 
taught  me." 

"Oh;  did  she?  And  do  you  play  that  the  dolls 
talk  to  each  other  as  if  they  was — were  the 
persons  ?" 

"Do  I  ?"  Margaret  assembled-  the  four  manikins 
into  a  smart  little  group.  The  doll  Beulah  rose, — 
on  her  forefinger.  "I  can't  help  feeling,"  mimicked 
Margaret  in  a  perfect  reproduction  of  Beulah's 
earnest  contralto,  "that  we're  wasting  our  lives, — 
criminally  dissipating  our  forces." 

The  doll  Gertrude  put  up  both  hands.  "I  want 
to  laugh,"  she  cried,  "won't  everybody  please  stop 
talking  till  I've  had  my  laugh  out.  Thank  you, 
thank  you." 

"Why,  that's  just  like  Aunt  Gertrude,"  Eleanor 
said.  "Her  voice  has  that  kind  of  a  sound  like  a 
bell,  only  more  ripply." 

92 


THE  TEN  HUTCHINSONS 

"Don't  be  high-brow,"  Jimmie's  lazy  baritone  be- 
sought with  the  slight  burring  of  the  "r's"  that 
Eleanor  found  so  irresistible.  "I'm  only  a  poor 
hard-working,  business  man.'* 

The  doll  David  took  the  floor  deliberately.  "We 
intend  to  devote  the  rest  of  our  lives,"  he  said, 
"to  the  care  of  our  beloved  cooperative  orphan." 
On  that  he  made  a  rather  over  mannered  exit, 
Margaret  planting  each  foot  down  deliberately 
until  she  flung  him  back  in  his  box.  "That's  the 
kind  of  a  silly  your  Aunt  Margaret  is,"  she  con- 
tinued, "but  you  mustn't  ever  tell  anybody, 
Eleanor."  She  clasped  the  child  again  in  one  of 
her  warm,  sudden  embraces,  and  Eleanor  squeezing 
her  shyly  in  return  was  altogether  enraptured  with 
her  new  existence. 

"But  there  isn't  any  doll  for  you,  Aunt  Mar- 
garet," she  cried. 

"Oh!  yes,  there  is,  but  I  wasn't  going  to  show 
her  to  you  unless  you  asked,  because  she's  so  nice. 
I  saved  the  prettiest  one  of  all  to  be  myself,  not 
because  I  believe  I'm  so  beautiful,  but — but  only 
because  I'd  like  to  be,  Eleanor." 

"I  always  pretend  I'm  a  princess,"  Eleanor  ad- 
mitted. 


93 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

The  Aunt  Margaret  doll  was  truly  a  beautiful 
creation,  a  little  more  like  Marie  Antoinette  than 
her  namesake,  but  bearing  a  not  inconsiderable  re- 
semblance to  both,  as  Margaret  pointed  out, 
judicially  analyzing  her  features. 

Eleanor  played  with  the  rabbit  doll  only  at  night 
after  this.  In  the  daytime  she  looked  rather  bat- 
tered and  ugly  to  eyes  accustomed  to  the  delicate 
finish  of  creatures  like  the  French  manikins,  but 
after  she  was  tucked  away  in  her  cot  in  the  passion 
flower  dressing-room  —  all  of  Margaret's  belong- 
ings and  decorations  were  a  faint,  pinky  lavender, 
— her  dear  daughter  Gwendolyn,  who  impersonated 
Albertina  at  increasingly  rare  intervals  as  time  ad- 
vanced, lay  in  the  hollow  of  her  arm  and  received 
her  sacred  confidences  and  ministrations  as  usual. 

"When  my  two  (2)  months  are  up  here  I  think 
I  should  be  quite  sorry,"  she  wrote  in  the  diary, 
"except  that  I'm  going  to  Uncle  Peter  next,  and 
him  I  would  lay  me  down  and  dee  for,  only  I 
never  get  time  enough  to  see  him,  and  know  if 
he  wants  me  to,  when  I  live  with  him  I  shall 
know.  Well  life  is  very  exciting  all  the  time  now. 
Aunt  Margaret  brings  me  up  this  way.  She  tells 

94 


THE  TEN  HUTCHINSONS 

me  that  she  loves  me  and  that  I've  got  beautiful 
eyes  and  hair  and  am  sweet.  She  tells  me  that  all 
the  time.  She  says  she  wants  to  love  me  up 
enough  to  last  because  I  never  had  love  enough 
before.  I  like  to  be  loved.  Albertina  never  loves 
any  one,  but  on  Cape  Cod  nobody  loves  anybody  — 
not  to  say  so  anyway.  If  a  man  is  getting  mar- 
ried they  say  he  likes  that  girl  he  is  going  to 
marry.  In  New  York  they  act  as  different  as 
they  eat.  The  Hutchinsons  act  different  from 
anybody.  They  do  not  know  Aunt  Margaret  has 
adoptid  me.  Nobody  knows  I  am  adoptid  but 
me  and  my  aunts  and  uncles.  Miss  Prentis  and 
Aunt  Beulah's  mother  when  she  came  home  and 
all  the  bohemiar  ladies  and  all  the  ten  Hutchinsons 
think  I  am  a  little  visiting  girl  from  the  country. 
It  is  nobody's  business  because  I  am  supported 
out  of  allowances  and  salaries,  but  it  makes  me 
feel  queer  sometimes.  I  feel  like 

"  'Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear, 
Out  of  the  nowhere  unto  the  here  ?' 

Also  I  made  tjiis  up  out  of  home  sweet  home. 

"  'Pleasures  and  palaces  where  e'er  I  may  roam, 
Be  it  ever  so  humble  I  wish  I  had  a  home.' 

95 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"I  like  having  six  homes,  but  I  wish  everybody 
knew  it.  I  am  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.  Speak- 
ing of  homes  I  asked  Aunt  Margaret  why  my 
aunts  and  uncles  did  not  marry  each  other  and 
make  it  easier  for  every  one.  She  said  they  were 
not  going  to  get  married.  That  was  why  they 
adoptid  me.  'Am  I  the  same  thing  as  getting 
married?'  I  ast.  She  said  no,  I  wasn't  except 
that  I  was  a  responsibility  to  keep  them  unselfish 
and  real.  Aunt  Beulah  doesn't  believe  in  mar- 
riage. She  thinks  its  beneth  her.  Aunt  Margaret 
doesn't  think  she  has  the  health.  Aunt  Gertrude 
has  to  have  a  career  of  sculpture,  Uncle  David  has 
got  to  marry  some  one  his  mother  says  to  or  not 
at  all,  and  does  not  like  to  marry  anyway.  Uncle 
Jimmie  never  saw  a  happy  mariage  yet  and  thinks 
you  have  a  beter  time  in  single  blesedness.  Uncle 
Peter  did  not  sign  in  the  book  where  they  said 
they  would  adopt  me  and  not  marry.  They  did 
not  want  to  ask  him  because  he  had  some  trouble 
once.  I  wonder  what  kind!  Well  I  am  going  to 
be  married  sometime.  I  want  a  house  to  do  the 
housework  in  and  a  husband  and  a  backyard  full 
of  babies.  Perhaps  I  would  rather  have  a  hired 
butler  and  gold  spoons.  I  don't  know  yet.  Of 

96 


THE  TEN  HUTCHINSONS 

course  I  would  like  to  have  time  to  write  poetry. 
I  can  sculpture  too,  but  I  don't  want  a  career  of 
it  because  it's  so  dirty." 

Physically  Eleanor  throve  exceedingly  during 
this  phase  of  her  existence.  The  nourishing  food 
and  regular  living,  the  sympathy  established  be- 
tween herself  and  Margaret,  the  regime  of  physical 
exercise  prescribed  by  Beulah  which  she  had  been 
obliged  guiltily  to  disregard  during  the  strenuous 
days  of  her  existence  in  Washington  Square,  all 
contributed  to  the  accentuation  of  her  material 
well-being.  She  played  with  Margaret's  nephew, 
and  ran  up  and  down  stairs  on  errands  for  her 
mother.  She  listened  to  the  tales  related  for  her 
benefit  by  the  old  people,  and  gravely  accepted  the 
attentions  of  the  two  formidable  young  men  of  the 
family,  who  entertained  her  with  the  pianola  and 
excerpts  from  classic  literature  and  folk  lore. 

"The  We  Are  Sevens  meet  every  Saturday 
afternoon,"  she  wrote — on  a  yellow  page  this  time 
— "usually  at  Aunt  Beulah's  house.  We  have  tea 
and  lots  of  fun.  I  am  examined  on  what  I  have 
learned  but  I  don't  mind  it  much.  Physically  I  am 

97 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

found  to  be  very  good  by  measure  and  waite.  My 
mind  is  developing  alright.  I  am  very  bright  on 
the  subject  of  poetry.  They  do  not  know  whether 
David  Copperfield  had  been  a  wise  choice  for  me, 
but  when  I  told  them  the  story  and  talked  about 
it  they  said  I  had  took  it  right.  I  don't  tell  them 
about  the  love  part  of  Aunt  Margaret's  bringing 
up.  Aunt  Beulah  says  it  would  make  me  self  con- 
scioush  to  know  that  I  had  such  pretty  eyes  and 
hair.  Aunt  Gertrude  said  'why  not  mention  my 
teeth  to  me,  then,'  but  no  one  seemed  to  think  so. 
Aunt  Beulah  says  not  to  develope  my  poetry  be- 
cause the  theory  is  to  strengthen  the  weak  part  of 
the  bridge,  and  make  me  do  arithmetic.  'Drill  on 
the  deficiency,'  she  says.  Well  I  should  think  the 
love  part  was  a  deficiency,  but  Aunt  Beulah  thinks 
love  is  weak  and  beneath  her  and  any  one.  Uncle 
David  told  me  privately  that  he  thought  I  was 
having  the  best  that  could  happen  to  me  right  now 
being  with  Aunt  Margaret.  I  didn't  tell  him  that 
the  David  doll  always  gets  put  away  in  the  box 
with  the  Aunt  Margaret  doll  and  nobody  else  ever, 
but  I  should  like  to  have.  He  thinks  she  is  the 
best  aunt  too." 


98 


THE  TEN  HUTCHINSONS 

Some  weeks  later  she  wrote  to  chronicle  a  pain- 
ful scene  in  which  she  had  participated. 

"I  quarreled  with  the  ten  Hutchinsons.  I  am 
very  sorry.  They  laughed  at  me  too  much  for 
being  a  little  girl  and  a  Cape  Codder,  but  they 
could  if  they  wanted  to,  but  when  they  laughed  at 
Aunt  Margaret  for  adopting  me  and  the  tears  came 
in  her  eyes  I  could  not  bare  it.  I  did  not  let  the 
cat  out  of  the  bag,  but  I  made  it  jump  out.  The 
Grandfather  asked  me  when  I  was  going  back  to 
Cape  Cod,  and  I  said  I  hoped  never,  and  then  I 
said  I  was  going  to  visit  Uncle  Peter  and  Aunt 
Gertrude  and  Uncle  David  next.  They  said  'Uncle 
David — do  you  mean  David  Boiling?'  and  I  did, 
so  I  said  'yes/  Then  all  the  Hutchinsons  pitched 
into  Aunt  Margaret  and  kept  laughing  and  saying, 
'Who  is  this  mysterious  child  anyway,  and  how  is 
it  that  her  guardians  intrust  her  to  a  crowd  of 
scatter  brain  youngsters  for  so  long?'  and  then 
they  said  'Uncle  David  Boiling — what  does  his 
mother  say?'  Then  Aunt  Margaret  got  very  red 
in  the  face  and  the  tears  started  to  come,  and  I 
said  'I  am  not  a  mysterious  child,  and  my  Uncle 
David  is  as  much  my  Uncle  David  as  they  all  are,' 

99 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

and  then  I  said  'My  Aunt  Margaret  has  got  a  per- 
fect right  to  have  me  intrusted  to  her  at  any  time, 
and  not  to  be  laughed  at  for  it,'  and  I  went  and 
stood  in  front  of  her  and  gave  her  my  hand- 
kercheve. 

"Well  I  am  glad  somebody  has  been  told  that 
I  am  properly  adoptid,  but  I  am  sorry  it  is  the  ten 
Hutchinsons  who  know." 


CHAPTER  IX 
PETER 

UNCLE  Peter  treated  her  as  if  she  were  grown 
up;  that  was  the  wonderful  thing  about 
her  visit  to  him, — if  there  could-  be  one  thing 
about  it  more  wonderful  than  another.  From  the 
moment  when  he  ushered  her  into  his  friendly, 
low  ceiled  drawing-room  with  its  tiers  upon  tiers 
of  book  shelves,  he  admitted  her  on  terms  of 
equality  to  the  miraculous  order  of  existence  that 
it  was  the  privilege  of  her  life  to  share.  The  pink 
silk  coverlet  and  the  elegance  of  the  silver  coated 
steampipes  at  Beulah's;  the  implacable  British 
stuffiness  at  the  Winchester  which  had  had  its  own 
stolid  charm  for  the  lineal  descendant  of  the  Pil- 
grim fathers;  the  impressively  casual  atmosphere 
over  which  the  "hired  butler"  presided  distributing 
after-dinner  gold  spoons,  these  impressions  all 
dwindled  and  diminished  and  took  their  insignifi- 
cant place  in  the  background  of  the  romance  she 
was  living  and  breathing  in  Peter's  jewel  box  of 
an  apartment  on  Thirtieth  Street. 

101 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

Even  to  more  sophisticated  eyes  than  Eleanor's 
the  place  seemed  to  be  a  realized  ideal  of  charm 
and  homeliness.  It  was  one  of  the  older  fashioned 
duplex  apartments  designed  in  a  more  aristocratic 
decade  for  a  more  fastidious  generation,  yet  suf- 
ficiently adapted  to  the  modern  insistence  on  tech- 
nical convenience.  Peter  owed  his  home  to  his 
married  sister,  who  had  discovered  it  and  leased 
it  and  settled  it  and  suddenly  departed  for  a  five 
years'  residence  in  China  with  her  husband,  who 
was  as  she  so  often  described  him,  "a  blooming 
Englishman,  and  an  itinerant  banker."  Peter's  do- 
mestic affairs  were  despatched  by  a  large,  motherly 
Irishwoman,  whom  Eleanor  approved  of  on  sight 
and  later  came  to  respect  and  adore  without  reser- 
vation. 

Peter's  home  was  a  home  with  a  place  in  it  for 
her — a  place  that  it  was  perfectly  evident  was  bet- 
ter with  her  than  without  her.  She  even  slept  in 
the  bed  that  Peter's  sister's  little  girl  had  occupied, 
and  there  were  pictures  on  the  walls  that  had  been 
selected  for  her. 

She  had  been  very  glad  to  make  her  escape  from 
the  Hutchinson  household.  Her  "quarrel"  with 
them  had  made  no  difference  in  their  relation  to 


102 


her.  To  her  surprise  they  treated  Her  with  an 
increase  of  deference  after  her  outburst,  and  every 
member  of  the  family,  excepting  possibly  Hugh 
Hutchinson  senior,  was  much  more  carefully  polite 
to  her.  Margaret  explained  that  the  family  really 
didn't  mind  having  their  daughter  a  party  to  the 
experiment  of  cooperative  parenthood.  It  ap- 
pealed to  them  as  a  very  interesting  try-out  of 
modern  educational  theory,  and  their  own  theories 
of  the  independence  of  the  individual  modified 
their  criticism  of  Margaret's  secrecy  in  the  matter, 
which  was  the  only  criticism  they  had  to  make  since 
Margaret  had  an  income  of  her  own  accruing  from 
the  estate  of  the  aunt  for  whom  she  had  been 
named. 

"It  is  very  silly  of  me  to  be  sensitive  about 
being  laughed  at,"  Margaret  concluded.  "I've  lived 
all  my  life  surrounded  by  people  suffering  from 
an  acute  sense  of  humor,  but  I  never,  never,  never 
shall  get  used  to  being  held  up  to  ridicule  for 
things  that  are  not  funny  to  me." 

"I  shouldn't  think  you  would,"  Eleanor  answered 
devoutly. 

In  Peter's  house  there  was  no  one  to  laugh  at 
her  but  Peter,  and  when  Peter  laughed  she  con- 

103 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

sidered  it  a  triumph.  It  meant  that  there  was 
something  she  said  that  he  liked.  The  welcome 
she  had  received  as  a  guest  in  his  house  and  the 
wonderful  evening  that  succeeded  it  were  among 
the  epoch  making  hours  in  Eleanor's  life.  It  had 
happened  in  this  wise. 

The  Hutchinson  victoria,  for  Grandmother 
Hutchinson  still  clung  to  the  old-time,  stately 
method  of  getting  about  the  streets  of  New  York, 
had  left  her  at  Peter's  door  at  six  o'clock  of  a 
keen,  cool  May  evening.  Margaret  had  not  been 
well  enough  to  come  with  her,  having  been  pros- 
trated by  one  of  the  headaches  of  which  she  was 
a  frequent  victim. 

The  low  door  of  ivory  white,  beautifully  carved 
and  paneled,  with  its  mammoth  brass  knocker,  the 
row  of  window  boxes  along  the  cornice  a  few  feet 
above  it,  the  very  look  of  the  house  was  an  ex- 
perience and  an  adventure  to  her.  When  she  rang, 
the  door  opened  almost  instantly  revealing  Peter 
on  the  threshold  with  his  arms  open.  He  had  led 
her  up  two  short  flights  of  stairs — ivory  white  with 
carved  banisters,  she  noticed,  all  as  immaculately 
shining  with  soap  and  water  as  a  Cape  Cod  in- 
terior— to  his  own  gracious  drawing-room  where 

104 


PETER 

Mrs.  Finnigan  was  bowing  and  smiling  a  warm- 
hearted Irish  welcome  to  her.  It  was  like  a  won- 
derful story  in  a  book  and  her  eyes  were  shining 
with  joy  as  Uncle  Peter  pulled  out  her  chair  and 
she  sat  down  to  the  first  meal  in  her  honor.  The 
grown  up  box  of  candy  at  her  plate,  the  grave 
air  with  which  Peter  consulted  her  tastes  and 
her  preferences  were  all  a  part  of  a  beautiful  magic 
that  had  never  quite  touched  her  before. 

She  had  been  like  a  little  girl  in  a  dream  passing 
dutifully  or  delightedly  through  the  required  phases 
of  her  experience,  never  quite  believing  in  its  per- 
manence or  reality;  but  her  life  with  Uncle  Peter 
was  going  to  be  real,  and  her  own.  That  was 
what  she  felt  the  moment  she  stepped  over  his 
threshold. 

After  their  coffee  before  the  open  fire — she  her- 
self had  had  "cambric"  coffee — Peter  smoked  his 
cigar,  while  she  curled  up  in  silence  in  the  twin 
to  his  big  cushioned  chair  and  sampled  her  choco- 
lates. The  blue  flames  skimmed  the  bed  of  black 
coals,  and  finally  settled  steadily  at  work  on  them 
nibbling  and  sputtering  until  the  whole  grate  was 
like  a  basket  full  of  molten  light,  glowing  and 
golden  as  the  hot  sun  when  it  sinks  into  the  sea. 

105 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

Except  to  offer  her  the  ring  about  his  slender 
Panatela,  and  to  ask  her  if  she  were  happy,  Peter 
did  not  speak  until  he  had  deliberately  crushed 
out  the  last  spark  from  his  stub  and  thrown  it  into 
the  fire.  The  ceremony  over,  he  held  out  his  arms 
to  her  and  she  slipped  into  them  as  if  that  moment 
were  the  one  she  had  been  waiting  for  ever  since 
the  white  morning  looked  into  the  window  of  the 
lavender  dressing-room  on  Morningside  Heights, 
and  found  her  awake  and  quite  cold  with  the  ex- 
citement of  thinking  of  what  the  day  was  to  bring 
forth. 

"Eleanor,"  Peter  said,  when  he  was  sure  she 
was  comfortably  arranged  with  her  head  on  his 
shoulder,  "Eleanor,  I  want  you  to  feel  at  home 
while  you  are  here,  really  at  home,  as  if  you  hadn't 
any  other  home,  and  you  and  I  belonged  to  each 
other.  I'm  almost  too  young  to  be  your  father, 
but—" 

"Oh!  are  you?"  Eleanor  asked  fervently,  as  he 
paused. 

" — But  I  can  come  pretty  near  feeling  like  a 
father  to  you  if  it's  a  father  you  want.  I  lost 
my  own  father  when  I  was  a  little  older  than  you 
are  now,  but  I  had  my  dear  mother  and  sister 

106 


PETER 

left,  and  so  I  don't  know  what  it's  like  to  be  all 
alone  in  the  world,  and  I  can't  always  understand 
exactly  how  you  feel,  but  you  must  always  remem- 
ber that  I  want  to  understand  and  that  I  will  un- 
derstand if  you  tell  me.  Will  you  remember  that, 
Eleanor  ?" 

"Yes,  Uncle  Peter,"  she  said  soberly;  then  per- 
haps for  the  first  time  since  her  babyhood  she  vol- 
unteered a  caress  that  was  not  purely  maternal  in 
its  nature.  She  put  up  a  shy  hand  to  the  cheek 
so  close  to  her  own  and  patted  it  earnestly.  "Of 
course  I've  got  my  grandfather  and  grandmother," 
she  argued,  "but  they're  very  old,  and  not  very 
affectionate,  either.  Then  I  have  all  these  new 
aunts  and  uncles  pretending,"  she  was  penetrating 
to  the  core  of  the  matter,  Peter  realized,  "that 
they're  just  as  good  as  parents.  Of  course,  they're 
just  as  good  as  they  can  be  and  they  take  so  much 
trouble  that  it  mortifies  me,  but  it  isn't  just  the 
same  thing,  Uncle  Peter!" 

"I  know,"  Peter  said,  "I  know,  dear,  but  you 
must  remember  we  mean  well." 

"I  don't  mean  you;  it  isn't  you  that  I  think  of 
when  I  think  about  my  co — co-woperative  parents, 
and  it  isn't  any  of  them  specially, — it's  just  the 

107 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

idea  of — of  visiting  around,  and  being  laughed  at, 
and  not  really  belonging  to  anybody." 

Peter's  arms  tightened  about  her. 

"Oh!  but  you  do  belong,  you  do  belong.  You 
belong  to  me,  Eleanor." 

"That  was  what  I  hoped  you  would  say,  Uncle 
Peter,"  she  whispered. 

They  had  a  long  talk  after  this,  discussing  the 
past  and  the  future ;  the  past  few  months  of  the  ex- 
periment from  Eleanor's  point  of  view,  and  the 
future  in  relation  to  its  failures  and  successes. 
Beulah  was  to  begin  giving  her  lessons  again  and 
she  was  to  take  up  music  with  a  visiting  teacher 
on  Peter's  piano.  (Eleanor  had  not  known  it  was 
a  piano  at  first,  as  she  had  never  seen  a  baby  grand 
before.  Peter  did  not  know  what  a  triumph  it 
was  when  she  made  herself  put  the  question  to 
him.) 

"If  my  Aunt  Beulah  could  teach  me  as  much 
as  she  does  and  make  it  as  interesting  as  Aunt 
Margaret  does,  I  think  I  would  make  her  feel 
very  proud  of  me,"  Eleanor  said.  "I  get  so  nervous 
saving  energy  the  way  Aunt  Beulah  says  for  me 
to  that  I  forget  all  the  lesson.  Aunt  Margaret 
tells  too  many  stories,  I  guess,  but  I  like  them." 

108 


PETER 

"Your  Aunt  Margaret  is  a  child  of  God,"  Peter 
said  devoutly,  "in  spite  of  her  raw-boned,  intel- 
lectual family." 

"Uncle  David  says  she's  a  daughter  of  the 
fairies." 

"She's  that,  too.  When  Margaret's  a  year  or 
two  older  you  won't  feel  the  need  of  a  mother." 

"I  don't  now,"  said  Eleanor;  "only  a  father, — 
that  I  want  you  to  be,  the  way  you  promised." 

"That's  done,"  Peter  said.  Then  he  continued 
musingly,  "You'll  find  Gertrude — different.  I  can't 
quite  imagine  her  presiding  over  your  moral  wel- 
fare but  I  think  she'll  be  good  at  it.  She's  a  good 
deal  of  a  person,  you  know." 

"Aunt  Beulah's  a  good  kind  of  person,  too," 
Eleanor  said;  "she  tries  hard.  The  only  thing  is 
that  she  keeps  trying  to  make  me  express  myself, 
and  I  don't  know  what  that  means." 

"Let  me  see  if  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Peter.  "Self- 
expression  is  a  part  of  every  man's  duty.  Inside 
we  are  all  trying  to  be  good  and  true  and  fine — " 

"Except  the  villains,"  Eleanor  interposed.  "Peo- 
ple like  lago  aren't  trying." 

"Well,  we'll  make  an  exception  of  the  villains; 
we're  talking  of  people  like  us,  pretty  good  people 

109 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

with  the  right  instincts.  Well  then,  if  all  the  time 
we're  trying  to  be  good  and  true  and  fine,  we 
carry  about  a  blank  face  that  reflects  nothing  of 
what  we  are  feeling  and  thinking,  the  world  is  a 
little  worse  off,  a  little  duller  and  heavier  place 
for  what  is  going  on  inside  of  us." 

"Well,  how  can  we  make  it  better  off  then?" 
Eleanor  inquired  practically. 

"By  not  thinking  too  much  about  it  for  one 
thing,  except  to  remember  to  smile,  by  trying  to 
be  just  as  much  at  home  in  it  as  possible,  by  letting 
the  kind  of  person  we  are  trying  to  be  show 
through  on  the  outside.  By  gosh!  I  wish  Beulah 
could  hear  me." 

"By  just  not  being  bashful,  do  you  mean?" 

"That's  the  idea." 

"Well,  when  Aunt  Beulah  makes  me  do  those 
dancing  exercises,  standing  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor  and  telling  me  to  be  a  flower  and  express 
myself  as  a  flower,  does  she  just  mean  not  to  be 
bashful?" 

"Something  like  that:  she  means  stop  thinking 
of  yourself  and  go  ahead — " 

"But  how  can  I  go  ahead  with  her  sitting  there 
Watching?" 

110 


PETER 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  tell  you  to  imagine  that 
you  had  the  soul  of  a  flower,  but  I  haven't  the 
nerve." 

"You've  got  nerve  enough  to  do  anything," 
Eleanor  assured  him,  but  she  meant  it  admiringly, 
and  seriously. 

"I  haven't  the  nerve  to  go  on  with  a  moral  con- 
versation in  which  you  are  getting  the  better  of 
me  at  every  turn,"  Peter  laughed.  "I'm  sure  it's 
unintentional,  but  you  make  me  feel  like  a  good 
deal  of  an  ass,  Eleanor." 

"That  means  a  donkey,  doesn't  it?" 

"It  does,  and  by  jove,  I  believe  that  you're 
glad  of  it." 

"I  do  rather  like  it,"  said  Eleanor;  "of  course 
you  don't  really  feel  like  a  donkey  to  me.  I  mean 
I  don't  make  you  feel  like  one,  but  it's  funny  just 
pretending  that  you  mean  it." 

"Oh!  woman,  woman,"  Peter  cried.  "Beulah 
tried  to  convey  something  of  the  fact  that  you 
always  got  the  better  of  every  one  in  your  modest 
unassuming  way,  but  I  never  quite  believed  it 
before.  At  any  rate  it's  bedtime,  and  here  comes 
Mrs.  Finnigan  to  put  you  to  bed.  Kiss  me  good 
night,  sweetheart." 

Ill 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

Eleanor  flung  her  arms  about  his  neck,  in  her 
first  moment  of  abandonment  to  actual  emotional 
self-expression  if  Peter  had  only  known  it. 

"I  will  never  really  get  the  better  of  you  in  my 
life,  Uncle  Peter,"  she  promised  him  passionately. 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  OMNISCIENT  Focus 

ONE  of  the  traditional  prerogatives  of  an 
Omnipotent  Power  is  to  look  down  at  the 
activities  of  earth  at  any  given  moment  and  ascer- 
tain simultaneously  the  occupation  of  any  number 
of  people.  Thus  the  Arch  Creator — that  Being  of 
the  Supreme  Artistic  Consciousness — is  able  to 
peer  into  segregated  interiors  at  His  own  discre- 
tion and  watch  the  plot  thicken  and  the  drama 
develop.  Eleanor,  who  often  visualized  this  pro- 
ceeding, always  imagined  a  huge  finger  project- 
ing into  space,  cautiously  tilting  the  roofs  of  the 
Houses  of  Man  to  allow  the  sweep  of  the  Invisible 
Glance. 

Granting  the  hypothesis  of  the  Divine  privilege, 
and  assuming  for  the  purposes  of  this  narrative 
the  Omniscient  focus  on  the  characters  most  con- 
cerned in  it,  let  us  for  the  time  being  look  over 
the  shoulder  of  God  and  inform  ourselves  of  their 
various  occupations  and  preoccupations  of  a  Sat- 
urday afternoon  in  late  June  during  the  hour  be- 
fore dinner. 


113 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

Eleanor,  in  her  little  white  chamber  on  Thirtieth 
Street,  was  engaged  in  making  a  pink  and  green 
toothbrush  case  for  a  going-away  gift  for  her 
Uncle  Peter.  To  be  sure  she  was  going  away  with 
him  when  he  started  for  the  Long  Island  beach 
hotel  from  which  he  proposed  to  return  every  day 
to  his  office  in  the  city,  but  she  felt  that  a  slight 
token  of  her  affection  would  be  fitting  and  proper 
on  the  eve  of  their  joint  departure.  She  was 
hurrying  to  get  it  done  that  she  might  steal  softly 
into  the  dining-room  and  put  it  on  his  plate  unde- 
tected. Her  eyes  were  very  wide,  her  brow  intent 
and  serious,  and  her  delicate  lips  lightly  parted. 
At  that  moment  she  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to 
the  Botticelli  head  in  Beulah's  drawing-room  that 
she  had  so  greatly  admired. 

Of  all  the  people  concerned  in  her  history,  she 
was  the  most  tranquilly  occupied. 

Peter  in  the  room  beyond  was  packing  his  trunk 
and  his  suit-case.  At  this  precise  stage  of  his 
proceedings  he  was  trying  to  make  two  decisions, 
equally  difficult,  but  concerned  with  widely  differ- 
ent departments  of  his  consciousness.  He  was 
gravely  considering  whether  or  not  to  include 
among  his  effects  the  photograph  before  him  on 

114 


THE  OMNISCIENT  FOCUS 

the  dressing-table — that  of  the  girl  to  whom  he  had 
been  engaged  from  the  time  he  was  a  Princeton 
sophomore  until  her  death  four  years  later — and 
also  whether  or  not  it  would  be  worth  his  while 
to  order  a  new  suit  of  white  flannels  so  late  in 
the  season.  The  fact  that  he  finally  decided  against 
the  photograph  and  in  favor  of  the  white  flannels 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  relative  importance  of 
the  two  matters  thus  engrossing  him.  The  health 
of  the  human  mind  depends  largely  on  its  ability 
to  assemble  its  irrelevant  and  incongruous  problems 
in  dignified  yet  informal  proximity.  When  he  went 
to  his  desk  it  was  with  the  double  intention  of  ad- 
dressing a  letter  to  his  tailor,  and  locking  the 
cherished  photograph  in  a  drawer;  but,  the  letter 
finished,  he  still  held  the  picture  in  his  hand  and 
gazed  down  at  it  mutely  and  when  the  discreet 
knock  on  his  door  that  constituted  the  announcing 
of  dinner  came,  he  was  still  sitting  motionless  with 
the  photograph  propped  up  before  him. 

Up-town,  Beulah,  whose  dinner  hour  came  late, 
was  rather  more  actively,  though  possibly  not  more 
significantly,  occupied.  She  was  doing  her  best  to 
evade  the  wild  onslaught  of  a  young  man  in 
glasses  who  had  been  wanting  to  marry  her  for  a 

115 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

considerable  period,  and  had  now  broken  all  bounds 
/in  a  cumulative  attempt  to  inform  her  of  the  fact. 

Though  he  was  assuredly  in  no  condition  to 
listen  to  reason,  Beulah  was  reasoning  with  him, 
kindly  and  philosophically,  paying  earnest  attention 
to  the  style  and  structure  of  her  remarks  as  she 
did  so.  Her  emotions,  as  is  usual  on  such  oc- 
casions, were  decidedly  mixed.  She  was  conscious 
of  a  very  real  dismay  at  her  unresponsiveness,  a 
distress  for  the  acute  pain  from  which  the  dis- 
traught young  man  seemed  to  be  suffering,  and 
the  thrill,  which  had  she  only  known  it,  is  the  un- 
failing accompaniment  to  the  first  eligible  proposal 
of  marriage.  In  the  back  of  her  brain  there  was 
also,  so  strangely  is  the  human  mind  constituted, 
a  kind  of  relief  at  being  able  to  use  mature  logic 
once  more,  instead  of  the  dilute  form  of  moral 
dissertation  with  which  she  tried  to  adapt  herself 
to  Eleanor's  understanding. 

"I  never  intend  to  marry  any  one,"  she  was  ex- 
plaining gently.  "I  not  only  never  intend  to,  but 
I  am  pledged  in  a  way  that  I  consider  irrevocably 
binding  never  to  marry," — and  that  was  the  text 
from  which  all  the  rest  of  her  discourse  developed. 

Jimmie,  equally  bound  by  the  oath  of  celibacy, 

116 


THE  OMNISCIENT  FOCUS 

but  not  equally  constrained  by  it  apparently,  was 
at  the  very  moment  when  Beulah  was  so  success- 
fully repulsing  the  familiarity  of  the  high  cheek- 
boned  young  man  in  the  black  and  white  striped 
tie,  occupied  in  encouraging  a  familiarity  of  a  like 
nature.  That  is,  he  was  holding  the  hand  of  a 
young  woman  in  the  darkened  corner  of  a  drawing- 
room  which  had  been  entirely  unfamiliar  to  him 
ten  days  before,  and  was  about  to  impress  a  caress 
on  lips  that  seemed  to  be  ready  to  meet  his  with  a 
certain  degree  of  accustomed  responsiveness.  That 
this  was  not  a  peculiarly  significant  incident  in  Jim- 
mie's  career  might  have  been  difficult  to  explain, 
at  least  to  the  feminine  portion  of  the  group  of 
friends  he  cared  most  for. 

Margaret,  dressed  for  an  academic  dinner  party, 
in  white  net  with  a  girdle  of  pale  pink  and  lavender 
ribbons,  had  flung  herself  face  downward  on  her 
bed  in  reckless  disregard  of  her  finery;  and  be- 
cause it  was  hot  and  she  was  homesick  for  green 
fields  and  the  cool  stretches  of  dim  wooded  coun- 
try, had  transported  herself  in  fancy  and  still  in 
her  recumbent  attitude  to  the  floor  of  a  canoe  that 
was  drifting  down-stream  between  lush  banks  of 
meadow  grass  studded  with  marsh  lilies.  After 

117 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

some  interval — and  shift  of  position — the  way  was 
arched  overhead  with  whispering  trees,  the  stars 
came  out  one  by  one,  showing  faintly  between 
waving  branches;  and  she  perceived  dimly  that  a 
figure  that  was  vaguely  compounded  of  David  and 
Peter  and  the  handsomest  of  all  the  young  kings 
of  Spain,  had  quietly  taken  its  place  in  the  bow 
and  had  busied  itself  with  the  paddles, — whereupon 
she  was  summoned  to  dinner,  where  the  ten  Hutch- 
insons  and  their  guests  were  awaiting  her. 

David,  the  only  member  of  the  group  whose 
summer  vacation  had  actually  begun,  was  sitting 
on  the  broad  veranda  of  an  exclusive  country  club 
several  hundreds  of  miles  away  from  New  York 
and  looking  soberly  into  the  eyes  of  a  blue  ribbon 
bull  dog,  whose  heavy  jowl  rested  on  his  knees. 
His  mother,  in  one  of  the  most  fashionable  ver- 
sions of  the  season's  foulards,  sleekly  corseted  and 
coifed,  was  sitting  less  than  a  hundred  yards  away 
from  him,  fanning  herself  with  three  inches  of 
hand  woven  fan  and  contemplating  David.  In  the 
dressing-room  above,  just  alighted  from  a  lim- 
ousine de  luxe,  was  a  raven-haired,  crafty-eyed 
ingenue  (whose  presence  David  did  not  suspect 
or  he  would  have  recollected  a  sudden  pressing 

118 


THE  OMNISCIENT  FOCUS 

engagement  out  of  her  vicinity),  preening  herself 
for  conquest.  David's  mind,  unlike  the  minds  of 
the  "other  gifted  members  of  the  We  Are  Seven 
Club,"  to  quote  Jimmie's  most  frequent  way  of 
referring  to  them,  was  to  all  intents  and  purposes 
a  total  blank.  He  answered  monosyllabically  his 
mother's  questions,  patted  the  dog's  beetling  fore- 
head and  thought  of  nothing  at  all  for  practically 
forty-five  minutes.  Then  he  rose,  and  offering  his 
arm  to  his  mother  led  her  gravely  to  the  table  re- 
served for  him  in  the  dining-room. 

Gertrude,  in  her  studio  at  the  top  of  the  house 
in  Fifty-sixth  Street  where  she  lived  with  her 
parents,  was  putting  the  finishing  touches  on  a 
faun's  head;  and  a  little  because  she  had  uncon- 
sciously used  Jimmie's  head  for  her  model,  and 
a  little  because  of  her  conscious  realization  at  this 
moment  that  the  roughly  indicated  curls  over  the 
brow  were  like  nooody's  in  the  world  but  Jimmie's, 
she  was  thinking  of  him  seriously.  She  was  think- 
ing also  of  the  dinner  on  a  tray  that  would  pres- 
ently be  brought  up  to  her,  since  her  mother  and 
father  were  out  of  town,  and  of  her  coming  two 
months  with  Eleanor  and  her  recent  inspiration 
concerning  them. 

119 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

In  Colhassett,  Cape  Cod,  Massachusetts,  the  din- 
ner hour  and  even  the  supper  hour  were  long  past. 
In  the  commodious  kitchen  of  Eleanor's  former 
home  two  old  people  were  sitting  in  calico  valanced 
rockers,  one  by  either  window.  The  house  was 
a  pleasant  old  colonial  structure,  now  badly  run 
down  but  still  marked  with  that  distinction  that 
only  the  instincts  of  aristocracy  can  bestow  upon 
a  decaying  habitation. 

A  fattish  child  made  her  way  up  the  walk,  toe- 
ing out  unnecessarily,  and  let  herself  in  by  the  back 
door  without  knocking. 

"Hello,  Mis'  Chase  and  Mr.  Amos,"  she  said, 
seating  herself  in  a  straight  backed,  yellow  chair, 
and  swinging  her  crossed  foot  nonchalantly,  "I 
thought  I  would  come  in  to  inquire  about  Eleanor. 
Ma  said  that  she  heard  that  she  was  coming  home 
to  live  again.  Is  she,  Mr.  Amos?" 

Albertina  was  not  a  peculiar  favorite  of 
Eleanor's  grandfather.  Amos  Chase  had  ideas  of 
his  own  about  the  proper  bringing  up  of  children, 
and  the  respect  due  from  them  to  their  elders. 
Also  Albertina's  father  had  come  from  "poor 
stock."  There  was  a  strain  of  bad  blood  in  her. 
The  women  of  the  Weston  families  hadn't  always 

120 


THE  OMNISCIENT  FOCUS 

"behaved  themselves."  He  therefore  answered  this 
representative  of  the  youngest  generation  rather 
shortly. 

"I  don't  know  nothing  about  it,"  he  said. 

"Why,  father,"  the  querulous  old  voice  of 
Grandmother  Chase  protested,  "you  know  she's 
comin'  home  somewhere  'bout  the  end  of  July,  she 
and  one  of  h^r  new  aunties  and  a  hired  girl  they're 
bringing  along  to  do  the  work.  I  don't  see  why 
you  can't  answer  the  child's  question." 

"I  don't  know  as  I'm  obligated  to  answer  any 
questions  that  anybody  sees  fit  to  put  to  me." 

"Well,  I  be.  Albertina,  pass  me  my  glasses  from 
off  the  mantel-tree-shelf,  and  that  letter  sticking 
out  from  behind  the  clock  and  I'll  read  what  she 
says." 

Albertina,  with  a  reproachful  look  at  Mr.  Amos, 
who  retired  coughing  exasperatedly  behind  a  pa- 
per that  he  did  not  read,  allowed  herself  to  be 
informed  through  the  medium  of  a  letter  from 
Gertrude  and  a  postscript  from  Eleanor  of  the  pro- 
jected invasion  of  the  Chase  household. 

"I  should  think  you'd  rather  have  Eleanor  come 
home  by  herself  than  bringing  a  strange  woman 
and  a  hired  girl,"  Albertina  contributed  a  trifle 

121 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

tartly.  The  distinction  of  a  hired  girl  in  the  fam- 
ily was  one  which  she  had  long  craved  on  her  own 
account. 

"All  nonsense,  I  call  it,"  the  old  man  ejaculated. 

"Well,  Eleena,  she  writes  that  she  can't  get  away 
without  one  of  'em  comin'  along  with  her  and  I 
guess  we  can  manage  someways.  I  dunno  what 
work  city  help  will  make  in  this  kitchen.  You 
can't  expect  much  from  city  help.  They  ain't  clean 
like  home  folks.  I  shall  certainly  be  dretful  pleased 
to  see  Eleena,  and  so  will  her  grandpa —  in  spite 
o'  the  way  he  goes  on  about  it." 

A  snort  came  from  the  region  of  the  newspaper. 

"I  shouldn't  think  you'd  feel  as  if  you  had  a 
grandchild  now  that  six  rich  people  has  adopted 
her,"  Albertina  suggested  helpfully. 

"It's  a  good  thing  for  the  child,"  her  grand- 
mother said.  "I'm  so  lame  I  couldn't  do  my  duty 
by  her.  Old  folks  is  old  folks,  and  they  can't  do 
for  others  like  young  ones.  I'd  d'ruther  have  had 
her  adopted  by  one  father  and  mother  instead  o' 
this  passel  o'  young  folks  passing  her  around  among 
themselves,  but  you  can't  have  what  you'd  d'ruther 
have  in  this  world.  You  got  to  take  what  comes 
and  be  thankful." 


122 


THE  OMNISCIENT  FOCUS 

"Did  she  write  you  about  having  gold  coffee 
spoons  at  her  last  place?"  Albertina  asked.  "I 
think  they  was  probably  gilded  over  like  ice-cream 
spoons,  and  she  didn't  know  the  difference.  I  guess 
she  has  got  a  lot  of  new  clothes.  Well,  I'll  have 
to  be  getting  along.  I'll  come  in  again." 

At  the  precise  moment  that  the  door  closed  be- 
hind Albertina,  the  clock  in  Peter  Stuyvesant's 
apartment  in  New  York  struck  seven  and  Eleanor, 
in  a  fresh  white  dress  and  blue  ribbons,  slipped 
into  her  chair  at  the  dinner  table  and  waited  with 
eyes  blazing  with  excitement  for  Peter  to  make 
*he  momentous  discovery  of  the  gift  at  his  plate. 


CHAPTER  XI 
GERTRUDE  HAS  TROUBLE  WITH  HER  BEHAVIOR 

4  4  TT^v  EAR  Uncle  Peter,"  Eleanor  wrote  from 
JL/  Colhassett  when  she  had  been  established 
there  under  the  new  regime  for  a  week  or  more. 
"I  slapped  Albertina's  face.  I  am  very  awfully 
sorry,  but  I  could  not  help  it.  Don't  tell  Aunt 
Margaret  because  it  is  so  contrary  to  her  teachings 
and  also  the  golden  rule,  but  she  was  more  con- 
trary to  the  golden  rule  that  I  was.  I  mean  Alber- 
tina.  What  do  you  think  she  said  ?  She  said  Aunt 
Gertrude  was  homely  and  an  old  maid,  and  the 
hired  girl  was  homely  too.  Well,  I  think  she  is, 
but  I  am  not  going  to  have  Albertina  think  so. 
Aunt  Gertrude  is  pretty  with  those  big  eyes  and 
ink  like  hair  and  lovely  teeth  and  one  dimple.  Al- 
bertina likes  hair  fuzzed  all  over  faces  and  blonds. 
Then  she  said  she  guessed  I  wasn't  your  favorite, 
and  that  the  gold  spoons  were  most  likely  tin 
gilded  over.  I  don't  know  what  you  think  about 
slapping.  Will  you  please  write  and  say  what  you 
think?  You  know  I  am  anxsuch  to  do  well.  But 

124 


GERTRUDE  HAS  TROUBLE 

I  think  I  know  as  much  as  Albertina  about  some 
things.  She  uster  treat  me  like  a  dog,  but  it  is 
most  a  year  now  since  I  saw  her  before. 

"Well,  here  we  are,  Aunt  Gertrude  and  me,  too. 
Grandpa  did  not  like  her  at  first.  She  looked  so 
much  like  summer  folks,  and  acted  that  way,  too. 
He  does  not  agree  with  summer  folks,  but  she 
got  him  talking  about  foreign  parts  and  that  Span- 
ish girl  that  made  eyes  at  him,  and  nearly  got  him 
away  from  Grandma,  and  the  time  they  were 
wrecked  going  around  the  horn,  and  showing  her 
dishes  and  carvings  from  China.  Now  he  likes 
her  first  rate.  She  laughs  all  the  time.  Grandma 
likes  her  too,  but  not  when  Grandpa  tells  her  about 
that  girl  in  Spain. 

"We  eat  in  the  dining-room,  and  have  lovely 
food,  only  Grandpa  does  not  like  it,  but  we  have 
him  a  pie  now  for  breakfast, — his  own  pie  that 
he  can  eat  from  all  the  time  and  he  feels  better. 
Aunt  Gertrude  is  happy  seeing  him  eat  it  for 
breakfast  and  claps  her  hands  when  he  does  it, 
only  he  doesn't  see  her. 

"She  is  teaching  me  more  manners,  and  to  swim, 
and  some  French.  It  is  vacation  and  I  don't  have 


125 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

regular  lessons,  the  way  I  did  while  we  were  on 
Long  Island. 

"Didn't  we  have  a  good  time  in  that  hotel?  Do 
you  remember  the  night  I  stayed  up  till  ten  o'clock 
and  we  sat  on  the  beach  and  talked?  I  do.  I 
love  you  very  much.  I  think  it  is  nice  to  love  any- 
body. Only  I  miss  you.  I  would  miss  you  more 
if  I  believed  what  Albertina  said  about  my  not 
being  your  favorite.  I  am. 

"I  wish  you  could  come  down  here.  Uncle 
Jimmie  is  coming  and  then  I  don't  know  what  Al- 
bertina will  say. 

"About  teaching  me.  Aunt  Gertrude's  idea  of 
getting  me  cultivated  is  to  read  to  me  from  the 
great  Masters  of  literature  and  funny  books  too, 
like  Mark  Twain  and  the  Nonsense  Thology.  Then 
I  say  what  I  think  of  them,  and  she  just  lets  me 
develop  along  those  lines,  which  is  pretty  good  for 
summer. 

"Here  is  a  poem  I  wrote.    I  love  you  best. 

"The  sun  and  wind  are  on  the  sea, 
The  waves  are  clear  and  blue, 
This  is  the  place  I  like  to  be, 
If  I  could  just  have  you. 

126 


GERTRUDE  HAS  TROUBLE 

"The  insects  chirrup  in  the  grass, 

The  birds  sing  in  the  tree, 
And  oh!  how  quick  the  time  would  pass 
If  you  were  here  with  me." 

"What  do  you  think  of  slapping,  Aunt  Ger- 
trude?" Eleanor  asked  one  evening  when  they 
were  walking  along  the  hard  beach  that  the  re- 
ceding tide  had  left  cool  and  firm  for  their  path- 
way, and  the  early  moon  had  illumined  for  them. 
"Do  you  think  it's  awfully  bad  to  slap  any  one?" 

"I  wouldn't  slap  you,  if  that's  what  you  mean, 
Eleanor." 

"Would  you  slap  somebody  your  own  size  and  a 
little  bigger?" 

"I  might  under  extreme  provocation." 

"I  thought  perhaps  you  would,"  Eleanor  sighed 
with  a  gasp  of  relieved  satisfaction. 

"I  don't  believe  in  moral  suasion  entirely, 
Eleanor,"  Gertrude  tried  to  follow  Eleanor's  leads, 
until  she  had  in  some  way  satisfied  the  child's  need 
for  enlightenment  on  the  subject  under  discussion. 
It  was  not  always  simple  to  discover  just  what 
Eleanor  wanted  to  know,  but  Gertrude  had  come 
to  believe  that  there  was  always  some  excellent 

127 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

reason  for  her  wanting  to  know  it.  "I  think 
there  are  some  quarrels  that  have  to  be  settled  by 
physical  violence." 

Eleanor  nodded.     Then, 

"What  about  refinement?"  she  asked  unexpect- 
edly. "I  want  to  bring  myself  up  good  when — 
when  all  of  my  aunts  and  uncles  are  too  busy,  or 
don't  know.  I  want  to  grow  up,  and  be  ladylike 
and  a  credit,  and  I'm  getting  such  good  culture 
that  I  think  I  ought  to,  but — I  get  worried  about 
my  refinement.  City  refinement  is  different  from 
country  refinement." 

"Refinement  isn't  a  thing  that  you  can  worry 
about,"  Gertrude  began  slowly.  She  realized  per- 
haps better  than  any  of  thev  others,  being  a  better 
balanced,  healthier  creature  than  either  Beulah  or 
Margaret,  that  there  were  serious  defects  in  the 
scheme  of  cooperative  parentage.  Eleanor,  thanks 
to  the  overconscientious  digging  about  her  roots, 
was  acquiring  a  New  England  self-consciousness 
about  her  processes.  A  child,  Gertrude  felt,  should 
be  handed  a  code  ready  made  and  should  be  guided 
by  it  without  question  until  his  maturer  experience 
led  him  to  modify  it.  The  trouble  with  trying  to 
explain  this  to  Eleanor  was  that  she  had  already 

128 


GERTRUDE  HAS  TROUBLE 

had  too  many  things  explained  to  her,  and  the 
doctrine  of  unselfconsciousness  can  not  be  incul- 
cated by  an  exploitation  of  it.  "If  you  are 
naturally  a  fine  person  your  instinct  will  be  to  do 
the  fine  thing.  You  must  follow  it  when  you  feel 
the  instinct  and  not  think  about  it  between  times." 

'That's  Uncle  Peter's  idea,"  Eleanor  said,  "that 
not  thinking.  Well,  I'll  try — but  you  and  Uncle 
Peter  didn't  have  six  different  parents  and  a 
Grandpa  and  Grandma  and  Albertina  all  criticizing 
your  refinement  in  different  ways.  Don't  you  ever 
have  any  trouble  with  your  behavior,  Aunt 
Gertrude?" 

Gertrude  laughed.  The  truth  was  that  she  was 
having  considerable  trouble  with  her  behavior  since 
Jimmie's  arrival  two  days  before.  She  had  thought 
to  spend  her  two  months  with  Eleanor  on  Cape  Cod 
helping  the  child  to  relate  her  new  environment  to 
her  old,  while  she  had  the  benefit  of  her  native  air 
and  the  freedom  of  a  rural  summer.  She  also  felt 
that  one  of  their  number  ought  to  have  a  working 
knowledge  of  Eleanor's  early  surroundings  and 
habits.  She  had  meant  to  put  herself  and  her  own 
concerns  entirely  aside.  If  she  had  a  thought  for 
any  one  but  Eleanor  she  meant  it  to  be  for  the  two 

129 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

old  people  whose  guest  she  had  constituted  herself. 
She  explained  all  this  to  Jimmie  a  day  or  two  be- 
fore her  departure,  and  to  her  surprise  he  had  sug- 
gested that  he  spend  his  own  two  vacation  weeks 
watching  the  progress  of  her  experiment.  Before 
she  was  quite  sure  of  the  wisdom  of  allowing  him 
to  do  so  she  had  given  him  permission  to  come. 
Jimmie  was  part  of  her  trouble.  Her  craving  for 
isolation  and  undiscovered  country;  her  eagerness 
to  escape  with  her  charge  to  some  spot  where  she 
would  not  be  subjected  to  any  sort  of  familiar  sur- 
veillance, were  all  a  part  of  an  instinct  to  segre- 
gate herself  long  enough  to  work  out  the  problem 
of  Jimmie  and  decide  what  to  do  about  it.  This 
she  realized  as  soon  as  he  arrived  on  the  spot.  She 
realized  further  that  she  had  made  practically  no 
progress  in  the  matter,  for  this  curly  headed  young 
man,  bearing  no  relation  to  anything  that  Gertrude 
had  decided  a  young  man  should  be,  was  rapidly 
becoming  a  serious  menace  to  her  peace  of  mind, 
and  her  ideal  of  a  future  lived  for  art  alone.  She 
had  definitely  begun  to  realize  this  on  the  night  when 
Jimmie,  in  his  exuberance  at  securing  his  new  job, 
had  seized  her  about  the  waist  and  kissed  her  on  the 
lips.  She  had  thought  a  good  deal  about  that  kiss, 


130 


GERTRUDE  HAS  TROUBLE 

which  came  dangerously  near  being  her  first  one. 
She  was  too  clever,  too  cool  and  aloof,  to  have  had 
many  tentative  love-affairs.  Later,  as  she  softened 
and  warmed  and  gathered  grace  with  the  years  she 
was  likely  to  seem  more  alluring  and  approachable 
to  the  gregarious  male.  Now  she  answered  her 
small  interlocutor  truthfully. 

"Yes,  Eleanor,  I  do  have  a  whole  lot  of  trouble 
with  my  behavior.  I'm  having  trouble  with  it  to- 
day, and  this  evening,"  she  glanced  up  at  the  moon, 
which  was  seemingly  throwing  out  conscious  waves 
of  effulgence,  "I  expect  to  have  more,"  she  con- 
fessed. 

"Oh !  do  you  ?"  asked  Eleanor,  "I'm  sorry  I  can't 
sit  up  with  you  then  and  help  you.  You — you  don't 
expect  to  be — provocated  to  slap  anybody,  do  you?" 

"No,  I  don't,  but  as  things  are  going  I  almost 
wish  I  did,"  Gertrude  answered,  not  realizing  that 
before  the  evening  was  over  there  would  be  one 
person  whom  she  would  be  ruefully  willing  to  slap 
several  times  over. 

As  they  turned  into  the  village  street  from  the 
beach  road  they  met  Jimmie,  who  had  been  having 
his  after-dinner  pipe  with  Grandfather  Amos,  with 
whom  he  had  become  a  prime  favorite.  With  him 

131 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

was  Albertina,  toeing  out  more  than  ever  and  con- 
versing more  than  blandly. 

"This  virtuous  child  has  been  urging  me  to  come 
after  Eleanor  and  remind  her  that  it  is  bedtime," 
Jimmie  said,  indicating  the  pink  gingham  clad  fig- 
ure at  his  side.  "She  argues  that  Eleanor  is  some 
six  months  younger  than  she  and  ought  to  be  in 
bed  first,  and  personally  she  has  got  to  go  in  the 
next  fifteen  minutes." 

"It's  pretty  hot  weather  to  go  to  bed  in,"  Alber- 
tina said.  "Miss  Sturgis,  if  I  can  get  my  mother  to 
let  me  stay  up  half  an  hour  more,  will  you  let 
Eleanor  stay  up?" 

Just  beyond  her  friend,  in  the  shadow  of  her 
ample  back,  Eleanor  was  making  gestures  intended 
to  convey  the  fact  that  sitting  up  any  longer  was 
abhorrent  to  her. 

"Eleanor  needs  her  sleep  to-night,  I  think,"  Ger- 
trude answered,  professionally  maternal. 

"I  brought  Albertina  so  that  our  child  might  go 
home  under  convoy,  while  you  and  I  were  walking 
on  the  beach,"  Jimmie  suggested. 

As  the  two  little  girls  fell  into  step,  the  begin- 
ning of  their  conversation  drifted  back  to  the  other 
two,  who  stood  watching  them  for  a  moment. 

132 


GERTRUDE  HAS  TROUBLE 

"I  thought  I'd  come  over  to  see  if  you  was  will- 
ing to  say  you  were  sorry,"  Albertina  began.  "My 
face  stayed  red  in  one  spot  for  two  hours  that  day 
after  you  slapped  me." 

"I'm  not  sorry,"  Eleanor  said  ungraciously,  "but 
I'll  say  that  I  am,  if  you've  come  to  make  up." 

"Well,  we  won't  say  any  more  about  it  then," 
Albertina  conceded.  "Are  Miss  Sturgis  and  Mr. 
Sears  going  together,  or  are  they  just  friends?" 

"Isn't  that  Albertina  one  the  limit?"  Jimmie  in- 
quired, with  a  piloting  hand  under  Gertrude's  el- 
bow. "She  told  me  that  she  and  Eleanor  were  mad, 
but  she  didn't  want  to  stay  mad  because  there  was 
more  going  on  over  here  than  there  was  at  her 
house  and  she  liked  to  come  over." 

"I'm  glad  Eleanor  slapped  her,"  Gertrude  said; 
"still  I'm  sorry  our  little  girl  has  uncovered  the 
clay  feet  of  her  idol.  She's  through  with  Albertina 
for  good." 

"Do  you  know,  Gertrude,"  Jimmy  said,  as  they 
set  foot  on  the  glimmering  beach,  "you  don't  seem 
a  bit  natural  lately.  You  used  to  be  so  full  of  the 
everlasting  mischief.  Every  time  you  opened  your 
mouth  I  dodged  for  fear  of  being  spiked.  Yet  here 
you  are  just  as  docile  as  other  folks." 

133 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"Don't  you  like  me — as  well?"  Gertrude  tried 
her  best  to  make  her  voice  sound  as  usual. 

"Better,"  Jimmie  swore  promptly;  then  he  added 
a  qualifying — "I  guess." 

"Don't  you  know?"  But  she  didn't  allow  him 
the  opportunity  to  answer.  "I'm  in  a  transition 
period,  Jimmie,"  she  said.  "I  meant  to  be  such  a 
good  parent  to  Eleanor  and  correct  all  the  evil  ways 
into  which  she  has  fallen  as  a  result  of  all  her  other 
injudicious  training,  and,  instead  of  that,  I'm  doing 
nothing  but  think  of  myself  and  my  own  hanker- 
ings and  yearnings  and  such.  I  thought  I  could  do 
so  much  for  the  child." 

"That's  the  way  we  all  think  till  we  tackle  her 
and  then  we  find  it  quite  otherwise  and  even  more 
so.  Tell  me  about  your  hankerings  and  yearnings." 

"Tell  me  about  your  job,  Jimmie." 

And  for  a  little  while  they  found  themselves  on 
safe  and  familiar  ground  again.  Jimmie' s  new 
position  was  a  very  satisfactory  one.  He  found 
himself  associated  with  men  of  solidity  and  dis- 
cernment, and  for  the  first  time  in  his  business 
career  he  felt  himself  appreciated  and  stimulated 
by  that  appreciation  to  do  his  not  inconsiderable 
best.  Gertrude  was  the  one  woman — Eleanor  had 


134 


GERTRUDE  HAS  TROUBLE 

not  yet  attained  the  inches  for  that  classification — 
to  whom  he  ever  talked  business. 

"Now,  at  last,  I  feel  that  I've  got  my  feet  on  the 
earth,  Gertrude;  as  if  the  stuff  that  was  in  me  had 
a  chance  to  show  itself,  and  you  don't  know  what 
a  good  feeling  that  is  after  you've  been  marked 
trash  by  your  family  and  thrown  into  the  dust  heap." 

"I'm  awfully  glad,  Jimmie." 

"I  know  you  are,  'Trude.  You're  an  awfully 
good  pal.  It  isn't  everybody  I'd  talk  to  like  this. 
Let's  sit  down." 

The  moonlight  beat  down  upon  them  in  floods 
of  sentient  palpitating  glory.  Little  breathy  waves 
sought  the  shore  and  whispered  to  it.  The  pines 
on  the  breast  of  the  bank  stirred  softly  and  ten- 
derly. 

"Lord,  what  a  night,"  Jimmie  said,  and  began 
burying  her  little  white  hand  in  the  beach  sand. 
His  breath  was  not  coming  quite  evenly.  "Now 
tell  me  about  your  job,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  think  I  want  to  talk  about  my  job  to- 
night." 

"What  do  you  want  to  talk  about?" 

"I  don't  know."  There  was  no  question  about 
her  voice  sounding  as  usual  this  time. 

135 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

Jimmie  brushed  the  sand  slowly  away  from  the 
buried  hand  and  covered  it  with  his  own.  He 
drew  nearer,  his  face  close,  and  closer  to  hers. 
Gertrude  closed  her  eyes.  It  was  coming,  it  was 
coming  and  she  was  glad.  That  silly  old  vow  of 
celibacy,  her  silly  old  thoughts  about  art.  What 
was  art?  What  was  anything  with  the  arms  of  the 
man  you  loved  closing  about  you.  His  lips  were 
on  hers. 

Jimmie  drew  a  sharp  breath,  and  let  her  go. 

"Gertrude,"  he  said,  "I'm  incorrigible.  I  ought 
to  be  spanked.  I'd  make  love  to — Eleanor's  grand- 
mother if  I  had  her  down  here  on  a  night  like  this. 
Will  you  forgive  me?" 

Gertrude  got  to  her  feet  a  little  unsteadily,  but 
she  managed  a  smile. 

"It's  only  the  moon,"  she  said,  "and — and  young 
blood.  I  think  Grandfather  Amos  would  probably 
affect  me  the  same  way." 

Jimmie's  momentary  expression  of  blankness 
passed  and  Gertrude  did  not  press  her  advantage. 
They  walked  home  in  silence. 

"It's  awfully  companionable  to  realize  that  you 
also  are  human,  'Trude,"  he  hazarded  on  the  door- 
step. 

136 


GERTRUDE  HAS  TROUBLE 

Gertrude  put  a  still  hand  into  his,  which  is  a  way 
of  saying  "Good  night,"  that  may  be  more  formal 
than  any  other. 

"The  Colonel's  lady,  and  July  O'Grady,"  she 
quoted  lightly.  "Good  night,  Jimmie." 

Up-stairs  in  her  great  chamber  under  the  eaves, 
Eleanor  was  composing  a  poem  which  she  copied 
carefully  on  a  light  blue  page  of  her  private  diary. 
It  read  as  follows: 

"To  love,  it  is  the  saddest  thing, 

When  friendship  proves  unfit, 
For  lots  of  sadness  it  will  bring, 

When  e'er  you  think  of  it. 
Alas !  that  friends  should  prove  untrue 

And  disappoint  you  so. 
Because  you  don't  know  what  to  do, 

And  hardly  where  to  go." 


CHAPTER  XII 
MADAM  BOLLING 

4  4TS  this  the  child,  David?" 
1     "Yes,  mother." 

Eleanor  stared  impassively  into  the  lenses  of 
Mrs.  Boiling's  lorgnette. 

"This  is  my  mother,  Eleanor." 

Eleanor  courtesied  as  her  Uncle  Jimmie  had 
taught  her,  but  she  did  not  take  her  eyes  from  Mrs. 
Boiling's  face. 

"Not  a  bad-looking  child.  I  hate  this  American 
fashion  of  dressing  children  like  French  dolls,  in 
bright  colors  and  smart  lines.  The  English  are  so 
much  more  sensible.  An  English  country  child 
would  have  cheeks  as  red  as  apples.  How  old  are 
you?" 

"Eleven  years  old  my  next  birthday." 

"I  should  have  thought  her  younger,  David. 
Have  her  call  me  madam.  It  sounds  better." 

"Very  well,  mother.  I'll  teach  her  the  ropes 
when  the  strangeness  begins  to  wear  off.  This  kind 
of  thing  is  all  new  to  her,  you  know." 

"She  looks  it.     Give  her  the  blue  chamber  and 


138 


MADAM  BOLLING 

tell  Mademoiselle  to  take  charge  of  her.  You  say 
you  want  her  to  have  lessons  for  so  many  hours  a 
day.  Has  she  brains?" 

"She's  quite  clever.  She  writes  verses,  she  mod- 
els pretty  well,  Gertrude  says.  It's  top  soon  to 
expect  any  special  aptitude  to  develop." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  discover  your  philanthropic 
tendencies,  David.  I  never  knew  you  had  any  be- 
fore, but  this  seems  to  me  a  very  doubtful  under- 
taking. You  take  a  child  like  this  from  very  plain 
surroundings  and  give  her  a  year  or  two  of  life 
among  cultivated  and  well-to-do  people,  just  enough 
for  her  to  acquire  a  taste  for  extravagant  living 
and  associations.  Then  what  becomes  of  her?  You 
get  tired  of  your  bargain.  Something  else  comes 
on  the  docket.  You  marry — and  then  what  be- 
comes of  your  protegee?  She  goes  back  to  the 
country,  a  thoroughly  unsatisfied  little  rustic,  quite 
unfitted  to  be  the  wife  of  the  farmer  for  whom 
fate  intended  her." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't,  mother,"  David  said,  with 
an  uneasy  glance  at  Eleanor's  pale  face,  set  in  the 
stoic  lines  he  remembered  so  well  from  the  after- 
noon of  his  first  impression  of  her.  "She's  a  sen- 
sitive little  creature." 


139 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"Nonsense.  It  never  hurts  anybody  to  have  a 
plain  understanding  of  his  position  in  the  world. 
I  don't  know  what  foolishness  you  romantic  young 
people  may  have  filled  her  head  with.  It's  just  as 
well  she  should  hear  common  sense  from  me  and 
I  intend  that  she  shall." 

"I've  explained  to  you,  mother,  that  this  child  is 
my  legal  and  moral  responsibility  and  will  be 
partly  at  least  under  my  care  until  she  becomes  of 
age.  I  want  her  to  be  treated  as  you'd  treat  a  child 
of  mine  if  I  had  one.  If  you  don't,  I  can't  have 
her  visit  us  again.  I  shall  take  her  away  with  me 
somewhere.  Bringing  her  home  to  you  this  time  is 
only  an  experiment." 

"She'll  have  a  much  more  healthful  and  normal 
experience  with  us  than  she's  had  with  any  of  the 
rest  of  your  violent  young  set,  I'll  be  bound.  She'll 
probably  be  useful,  too.  She  can  look  out  for 
Zaidee — I  never  say  that  name  without  irritation — 
but  it's  the  only  name  the  little  beast  will  answer 
to.  Do  you  like  dogs,  child?" 

Eleanor  started  at  the  suddenness  of  the  ques- 
tion, but  did  not  reply  to  it.  Mrs.  Boiling  waited 
and  David  looked  at  her  expectantly. 

140 


MADAM  BOLLING 

"My  mother  asked  you  if  you  liked  dogs, 
Eleanor;  didn't  you  understand?" 

Eleanor  opened  her  lips  as  if  to  speak  and  then 
shut  them  again  firmly. 

"Your  protegee  is  slightly  deaf,  David,"  his 
mother  assured  him. 

"You  can  tell  her  'yes/ "  Eleanor  said  unex- 
pectedly to  David.  "I  like  dogs,  if  they  ain't 
treacherous." 

"She  asked  you  the  question,"  David  said  grave- 
ly; "this  is  her  house,  you  know.  It  is  she  who 
deserves  consideration  in  it." 

"Why  can't  I  talk  to  you  about  her,  the  way  she 
does  about  me?"  Eleanor  demanded.  "She  can 
have  consideration  if  she  wants  it,  but  she  doesn't 
think  I'm  any  account.  Let  her  ask  you  what  she 
wants  and  I'll  tell  you." 

"Eleanor,"  David  remonstrated,  "Eleanor,  you 
never  behaved  like  this  before.  I  don't  know  what's 
got  into  her,  mother." 

"She  merely  hasn't  any  manners.  Why  should 
she  have?" 

Eleanor  fixed  her  big  blue  eyes  on  the  lorgnette 
again. 

141 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"If  it's  manners  to  talk  the  way  you  do  to  your 
own  children  and  strange  little  girls,  why,  then  I 
don't  want  any,"  she  said.  "I  guess  I'll  be  going," 
she  added  abruptly  and  turned  toward  the  door. 

David  took  her  by  the  shoulders  and  brought  her 
right  about  face. 

"Say  good-by  to  mother,"  he  said  sternly. 

"Good-by,  ma'am — madam,"  Eleanor  said  and 
courtesied  primly. 

"Tell  Mademoiselle  to  teach  her  a  few  things 
before  the  next  audience,  David,  and  come  back  to 
me  in  fifteen  minutes.  I  have  something  impor- 
tant to  talk  over  with  you." 

David  stood  by  the  open  door  of  the  blue  cham- 
ber half  an  hour  later  and  watched  Eleanor  on 
her  knees,  repacking  her  suit-case.  Her  face  was 
set  in  pale  determined  lines,  and  she  looked  older 
and  a  little  sick.  Outside  it  was  blowing  a  Sep- 
tember gale,  and  the  trees  were  waving  desperate 
branches  in  the  wind.  David  had  thought  that  the 
estate  on  the  Hudson  would  appeal  to  the  little  girl. 
It  had  always  appealed  to  him  so  much,  even 
though  his  mother's  habits  of  migration  with  the 
others  of  her  flock  at  the  different  seasons  had  left 


142 


MADAM  BOLLING 

him  so  comparatively  few  associations  with  it.  He 
had  thought  she  would  like  the  broad  sweeping 
lawns  and  the  cherubim  fountain,  the  apple  or- 
chard and  the  kitchen  garden,  and  the  funny  old 
bronze  dog  at  the  end  of  the  box  hedge.  When  he 
saw  how  she  was  occupied,  he  understood  that  it 
was  not  her  intention  to  stay  and  explore  these 
things. 

"Eleanor,"  he  said,  stepping  into  the  room  sud- 
denly, "what  are  you  doing  with  your  suit-case? 
Didn't  Mademoiselle  unpack  it  for  you?"  He  was 
close  enough  now  to  see  the  signs  of  tears  she  had 
shed. 

"Yes,  Uncle  David." 

"Why  are  you  packing  it  again?" 

Her  eyes  fell  and  she  tried  desperately  to  con- 
trol a  quivering  lip. 

"Because  I  am — I  want  to  go  back." 

"Back  where?" 

"To  Cape  Cod." 

"Why,  Eleanor?" 

"I  ain't  wanted,"  she  said,  her  head  low.  "I 
made  up  my  mind  to  go  back  to  my  own  folks. 
I'm  not  going  to  be  adopted  any  more." 

143 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

David  led  her  to  the  deep  window-seat  and  made 
her  sit  facing  him.  He  was  too  wise  to  attempt  a 
caress  with  this  issue  between  them. 

"Do  you  think  that's  altogether  fair  to  me?"  he 
asked  presently. 

"I  guess  it  won't  make  much  difference  to  you. 
Something  else  will  come  along." 

"Do  you  think  it  will  be  fair  to  your  other  aunts 
and  uncles  who  have  given  so  much  care  and 
thought  to  your  welfare?" 

"They'll  get  tired  of  their  bargain." 

"If  they  do  get  tired  of  their  bargain  it  will  be 
because  they've  turned  out  to  be  very  poor  sports. 
I've  known  every  one  of  them  a  long  time,  and 
I've  never  known  them  to  show  any  signs  of  poor 
sportsmanship  yet.  If  you  run  away  without  giv- 
ing them  their  chance  to  make  good,  it  will  be  you 
who  are  the  poor  sport." 

"She  said  you  would  marry  and  get  tired  of  me, 
and  I  would  have  to  go  back  to  the  country.  If 
you  marry  and  Uncle  Jimmie  marries — then  Uncle 
Peter  will  marry,  and — " 

"You'd  still  have  your  Aunts  Beulah  and  Mar- 
garet and  Gertrude,"  David  could  not  resist  mak- 
ing the  suggestion. 

144 


MADAM  BOLLING 

"They  could  do  it,  too.  If  one  person  broke  up 
the  vow,  I  guess  they  all  would.  Misfortunes  never 
come  singly." 

"But  even  if  we  did,  Eleanor,  even  if  we  all 
married,  we'd  still  regard  you  as  our  own,  our 
child,  our  charge." 

"She  said  you  wouldn't."  The  tears  came  now, 
and  David  gathered  the  little  shaking  figure  to  his 
breast.  "I  don't  want  to  be  the  wife  of  the  farmer 
for  whom  fate  intended  me,"  she  sobbed.  "I  want 
to  marry  somebody  refined  with  extravagant  living 
and  associations." 

"That's  one  of  the  things  we  are  bringing  you 
up  for,  my  dear."  This  aspect  of  the  case  occurred 
to  David  for  the  first  time,  but  he  realized  its 
potency.  "You  mustn't  take  mother  too  seriously. 
Just  jolly  her  along  a  little  and  you'll  soon  get  to 
be  famous  friends.  She's  never  had  any  little  girls 
of  her  own,  only  my  brother  and  me,  and  she 
doesn't  know  quite  how  to  talk  to  them." 

"The  Hutchinsons  had  a  hired  butler  and  gold 
spoons,  and  they  didn't  think  I  was  the  dust  be- 
neath their  feet.  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to 
her.  I  said  ain't,  and  I  wasn't  refined,  and  I'll 
only  just  be  a  disgrace  to  you.  I'd  rather  go  back 

145 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

to  Cape  Cod,  and  go  out  to  work,  and  stand 
Albertina  and  everything." 

"If  you  think  it's  the  square  thing  to  do,"  David 
said  slowly,  "you  may  go,  Eleanor.  I'll  take  you 
to  New  York  to-morrow  and  get  one  of  the  girls 
to  take  you  to  Colhassett.  Of  course,  if  you  do 
that  it  will  put  me  in  rather  an  awkward  position. 
The  others  have  all  had  you  for  two  months  and 
made  good  on  the  proposition.  I  shall  have  to 
admit  that  I  couldn't  even  keep  you  with  me 
twenty-four  hours.  Peter  and  Jimmie  got  along 
all  right,  but  I  couldn't  handle  you  at  all.  As  a 
cooperative  parent,  I'm  such  a  failure  that  the 
whole  experiment  goes  to  pieces  through  me." 

"Not  you— her." 

"Well,  it's  the  same  thing, — you  couldn't  stand 
the  surroundings  I  brought  you  to.  You  couldn't 
even  be  polite  to  my  mother  for  my  sake." 

"I— never  thought  of  that,  Uncle  David." 

"Think  of  it  now  for  a  few  minutes,  won't  you, 
Eleanor?" 

The  rain  was  beginning  to  lash  the  windows, 
and  to  sweep  the  lawn  in  long  slant  strokes.  The 
little  girl  held  up  her  face  as  if  it  could  beat 
through  the  panes  on  it. 

146 


MADAM  BOLLING 

"I  thought,"  she  said  slowly,  "that  after 
Albertina  I  wouldn't  take  anything  from  anybody. 
Uncle  Peter  says  that  I'm  just  as  good  as  any- 
body, even  if  I  have  been  out  to  work.  He  said 
that  all  I  had  to  do  was  just  to  stand  up  to 
people." 

"There  are  a  good  many  different  ways  of 
standing  up  to  people,  Eleanor.  Be  sure  you've 
got  the  right  way  and  then  go  ahead." 

"I  guess  I  ought  to  have  been  politer,"  Eleanor 
said  slowly.  "I  ought  to  have  thought  that  she 
was  your  own  mother.  You  couldn't  help  the 
way  she  acted,  o'  course." 

"The  way  you  acted  is  the  point,  Eleanor." 

Eleanor  reflected. 

"I'll  act  different  if  you  want  me  to,  Uncle 
David,"  she  said,  "and  I  won't  go  and  leave  you." 

"That's  my  brave  girl.  I  don't  think  that  I 
altogether  cover  myself  with  glory  in  an  inter- 
view with  my  mother,"  he  added.  "It  isn't  the 
thing  that  I'm  best  at,  I  admit." 

"You  did  pretty  good,"  Eleanor  consoled  him. 
"I  guess  she  makes  you  kind  of  bashful  the  way 
she  does  me,"  from  which  David  gathered  with 
an  odd  sense  of  shock  that  Eleanor  felt  there  was 


147, 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

something  to  criticize  in  his  conduct,  if  she  had 
permitted  herself  to  look  for  it. 

"I  know  what  I'll  do,"  Eleanor  decided  dream- 
ily with  her  nose  against  the  pane.  "I'll  just 
pretend  that  she's  Mrs.  O'Farrel's  aunt,  and  then 
whatever  she  does,  I  shan't  care.  I'll  know  that 
I'm  the  strongest  and  could  hit  her  if  I  had  a 
mind  to,  and  then  I  shan't  want  to." 

David  contemplated  her  gravely  for  several 
seconds. 

"By  the  time  you  grow  up,  Eleanor,"  he  said 
finally,  "you  will  have  developed  all  your  co- 
operative parents  into  fine  strong  characters.  Your 
educational  methods  are  wonderful." 

"The  dog  got  nearly  drownded  today  in  the 
founting,"  Eleanor  wrote.  "It  is  a  very  little  dog 
about  the  size  of  Gwendolyn.  It  was  out  with 
Mademoiselle,  and  so  was  I,  learning  French  on 
a  garden  seat.  It  teetered  around  on  the  edge  of 
the  big  wash  basin — the  founting  looks  like  a 
wash  basin,  and  suddenly  it  fell  in.  I  waded  right 
in  and  got  it,  but  it  slipped  around  so  I  couldn't 
get  it  right  away.  It  looked  almost  too  dead  to 
come  to  again,  but  I  gave  it  first  aid  to  the 

148 


MADAM  BOLLING 

drownded  the  way  Uncle  Jimmie  taught  me  to 
practicing  on  Gwendolyn.  When  I  got  it  fixed  I 
looked  up  and  saw  Uncle  David's  mother  coming. 
I  took  the  dog  and  gave  it  to  her.  I  said,  'Madam, 
here's  your  dog/  Mademoiselle  ran  around  ring- 
ing her  hands  and  talking  about  it.  Then  I  went 
up  to  Mrs.  Boiling's  room,  and  we  talked.  I  told 
her  how  to  make  mustard  pickles,  and  how  my 
mother's  grandpa's  relation  came  over  in  the  May- 
flower, and  about  our  single  white  lilac  bush,  and 
she's  going  to  get  one  and  make  the  pickles.  Then 
I  played  double  Canfield  with  her  for  a  while. 
I'm  glad  I  didn't  go  home  before  I  knew  her 
better.  When  she  acts  like  Mrs.  O'Farrel's  aunt 
I  pretend  she  is  her,  and  we  don't  quarrel.  She 
says  does  Uncle  David  go  much  to  see  Aunt 
Beulah,  and  I  say,  not  so  often  as  Uncle  Jimmie 
does.  Then  she  says  does  he  go  to  see  Aunt 
Margaret,  and  I  say  that  he  goes  to  see  Uncle 
Peter  the  most.  Well,  if  he  doesn't  he  almost 
does.  You  can't  tell  Mrs.  Madam  Boiling  that 
you  won't  tattle,  because  she  would  think  the 
worst." 

Eleanor  grew    to  like  Mademoiselle.    She  was 
149 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

the  aging,  rather  wry  faced  Frenchwoman  who 
had  been  David's  young  brother's  governess  and 
had  made  herself  so  useful  to  Mrs.  Boiling  that 
she  was  kept  always  on  the  place,  half  companion 
and  half  resident  housekeeper.  She  was  glad  to 
have  a  child  in  charge  again,  and  Eleanor  soon 
found  that  her  crooked  features  and  severe  high- 
shouldered  back  that  had  somewhat  intimidated 
her  at  first,  actually  belonged  to  one  of  the  kindest 
hearted  creatures  in  the  world. 

Paris  and  Colhassett  bore  very  little  resemblance 
to  each  other,  the  two  discovered.  To  be  sure 
there  were  red  geraniums  every  alternating  year 
in  the  gardens  of  the  Louvre,  and  every  year  in 
front  of  the  Sunshine  Library  in  Colhassett.  The 
residents  of  both  places  did  a  great  deal  of  driv- 
ing in  fine  weather.  In  Colhassett  they  drove  on 
the  state  highway,  recently  macadamized  to  the 
dismay  of  the  taxpayers  who  did  not  own  horses 
or  automobiles.  In  Paris  they  drove  out  to  the 
Bois  by  way  of  the  Champs  Elysees.  In  Colhassett 
they  had  only  one  ice-cream  saloon,  but  in  Paris 
they  had  a  good  many  of  them  out-of-doors  in 
the  parks  and  even  on  the  sidewalk,  and  there 
you  could  buy  all  kinds  of  sirups  and  'what  you 

150 


MADAM  BOLLING 

call  cordials'  and  aperitifs;  but  the  two  places  on 
the  whole  were  quite  different.  The  people  were 
different,  too.  The  people  of  Colhassett  were  all 
religious  and  thought  it  was  sinful  to  play  cards 
on  Sundays.  Mademoiselle  said  she  always  felt 
wicked  when  she  played  them  on  a  week  day. 

"I  think  of  my  mother,"  she  said;  "she  would 
say  'Juliette,  what  will  you  say  to  the  Lord  when 
he  knows  that  you  have  been  playing  cards  on  a 
working  day.  Playing  cards  is  for  Sunday.' ' 

"The  Lord  that  they  have  in  Colhassett  is  not 
like  that,"  Eleanor  stated  without  conscious  ir- 
reverence. 

"She  is  a  vary  fonny  child,  madam,"  Made- 
moiselle answered  Mrs.  Boiling's  inquiry.  "She  has 
taste,  but  no — experience  even  of  the  most 
ordinary.  She  cooks,  but  she  does  no  embroidery. 
She  knits  and  knows  no  games  to  play.  She  has 
a  good  brain,  but  Mon  Dieu,  no  one  has  taught 
her  to  ask  questions  with  it." 

"She  has  had  lessons  this  year  from  some  young 
Rogers  graduates,  very  intelligent  girls.  I  should 
think  a  year  of  that  kind  of  training  would  have 
had  its  effect."  Mrs.  Boiling's  finger  went  into 
every  pie  in  her  vicinity  with  unfailing  direction. 

151 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"Lessons,  yes,  but  no  teaching.  If  she  were  not 
vary  intelligent  I  think  she  would  have  suffered 
for  it.  The  public  schools  they  did  somesing,  but 
so  little  to  elevate — to  encourage." 

Thus  in  a  breath  were  Beulah's  efforts  as  an 
educator  disposed  of. 

"Would  you  like  to  undertake  the  teaching  of 
that  child  for  a  year  ?"  Mrs.  Boiling  asked  thought- 
fully. 

"Oh!  but  yes,  madam." 

"I  think  I'll  make  the  offer  to  David." 

Mrs.  Boiling  was  unsympathetic  but  she  was 
thorough.  She  liked  to  see  things  properly  done. 
Since  David  and  his  young  friends  had  under- 
taken a  venture  so  absurd,  she  decided  to  lend 
them  a  helping  hand  with  it.  Besides,  now  that 
she  had  no  children  of  her  own  in  the  house, 
Mademoiselle  was  practically  eating  her  head  off. 
Also  it  had  developed  that  David  was  fond  of  the 
child,  so  fond  of  her  that  to  oppose  that  affection 
would  have  been  bad  policy,  and  Mrs.  Boiling  was 
politic  when  she  chose  to  be.  She  chose  to  be 
politic  now,  for  sometime  during  the  season  she 
was  going  to  ask  a  very  great  favor  of  David, 
and  she  hoped,  that  by  first  being  extraordinarily 

152 


MADAM  BOLLING 

complaisant  and  kind  and  then  by  bringing  con- 
siderable pressure  to  bear  upon  him,  he  would 
finally  do  what  he  was  asked.  The  favor  was  to 
provide  himself  with  a  father-in-law,  and  that 
father-in-law  the  multi-millionaire  parent  of  the 
raven-haired,  crafty-eyed  ingenue,  who  had  begun 
angling  for  him  that  June  night  at  the  country 
club. 

She  made  the  suggestion  to  David  on  the  eve 
of  the  arrival  of  all  of  Eleanor's  guardians  for 
the  week-end.  Mrs.  Boiling  had  invited  a  house- 
party  comprised  of  the  associated  parents  as  a 
part  of  her  policy  of  kindness  before  the  actual 
summoning  of  her  forces  for  the  campaign  she 
was  about  to  inaugurate. 

David  was  really  touched  by  his  mother's  gen- 
erosity concerning  Eleanor.  He  had  been  agree- 
ably surprised  at  the  development  of  the  situation 
between  the  child  and  his  mother.  He  had  been 
obliged  to  go  into  town  the  day  after  Eleanor's 
first  unfortunate  encounter  with  her  hostess,  and 
had  hurried  home  in  fear  and  trembling  to  try 
to  smooth  out  any  tangles  in  the  skein  of  their 
relationship  that  might  have  resulted  from  a  day 
in  each  other's  vicinity.  After  hurrying  over  the 

153 


house  and  through  the  grounds  in  search  of  her 
he  finally  discovered  the  child  companionably  cur- 
rying a  damp  and  afflicted  Pekinese  in  his  mother's 
sitting-room,  and  engaged  in  a  grave  discussion 
of  the  relative  merits  of  molasses  and  sugar  as  a 
sweetening  for  Boston  baked  beans. 

It  was  while  they  were  having  their  after-dinner 
coffee  in  the  library,  for  which  Eleanor  had  been 
allowed  to  come  down,  though  nursery  supper 
was  the  order  of  the  day  in  the  Boiling  establish- 
ment, that  David  told  his  friends  of  his  mother's 
offer. 

"Of  course,  we  decided  to  send  her  to  school 
when  she  was  twelve  anyway,"  he  said.  "The 
idea  was  to  keep  her  among  ourselves  for  two 
years  to  establish  the  parental  tie,  or  ties  I  should 
say.  If  she  is  quartered  here  with  Mademoiselle 
we  could  still  keep  in  touch  with  her  and  she 
would  be  having  the  advantage  of  a  year's  steady 
tuition  under  one  person,  and  we'd  be  relieved — " 
a  warning  glance  from  Margaret,  with  an  almost 
imperceptible  inclination  of  her  head  in  the 
direction  of  Beulah,  caused  him  to  modify  the 
end  of  his  sentence — "of  the  responsibility — for  her 
physical  welfare." 

154 


MADAM  BOLLING 

"Mentally  and  morally,"  Gertrude  cut  in,  "the 
bunch  would  still  supervise  her  entirely." 

Jimmie,  who  was  sitting  beside  her,  ran  his 
arm  along  the  back  of  her  chair  affectionately,  and 
then  thought  better  of  it  and  drew  it  away.  He 
was,  for  some  unaccountable  reason,  feeling 
awkward  and  not  like  himself.  There  was  a  girl 
in  New  York,  with  whom  he  was  not  in  the  least 
in  love,  who  had  recently  taken  it  upon  herself 
to  demonstrate  unmistakably  that  she  was  not  in 
love  with  him.  There  was  another  girl  who  in- 
sisted on  his  writing  her  every  day.  Here  was 
Gertrude,  who  never  had  any  time  for  him  any 
more,  absolutely  without  enthusiasm  at  his  prox- 
imity. He  thought  it  would  be  a  good  idea  to  allow 
Eleanor  to  remain  where  she  was  and  said  so. 

"Not  that  I  won't  miss  the  jolly  times  we  had 
together,  Babe,"  he  said.  "I  was  planning  some 
real  rackets  this  year, — to  make  up  for  what  I 
put  you  through,"  he  added  in  her  ear,  as  she 
came  and  stood  beside  him  for  a  minute. 

Gertrude  wanted  to  go  abroad  for  a  year,  "and 
lick  her  wounds,"  as  she  told  herself.  She  would 
have  come  back  for  her  two  months  with  Eleanor, 
but  she  was  glad  to  be  relieved  of  that  necessity. 

155 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

Margaret  had  the  secret  feeling  that  the  ordeal 
of  the  Hutchinsons  was  one  that  she  would  like 
to  spare  her  foster  child,  and  incidentally  herself 
in  relation  to  the  adjustment  of  conditions  nec- 
essary to  Eleanor's  visit.  Peter  wanted  her  with 
him,  but  he  believed  the  new  arrangement  would 
be  better  for  the  child.  Beulah  alone  held  out 
for  her  rights  and  her  parental  privileges.  The 
decision  was  finally  left  to  Eleanor. 

She  stood  in  the  center  of  the  group  a  little 
forlornly  while  they  awaited  her  word.  A  wave 
of  her  old  shyness  overtook  her  and  she  blushed 
hot  and  crimson. 

"It's  all  in  your  own  hands,  dear,"  Beulah  said 
briskly. 

"Poor  kiddie,"  Gertrude  thought,  "it's  all  wrong 
somehow." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  want  me  to  say," 
Eleanor  said  piteously  and  sped  to  the  haven  of 
Peter's  breast. 

"We'll  manage  a  month  together  anyway," 
Peter  whispered. 

"Then  I  guess  I'll  stay  here,"  she  whispered 
back,  "because  next  I  would  have  to  go  to  Aunt 
Beulah's." 


156 


MADAM  BOLLING 

Peter,  turning  involuntarily  in  Beulah's  direc- 
tion, saw  the  look  of  chagrin  and  disappointment 
on  her  face,  and  realized  how  much  she  minded 
playing  a  losing  part  in  the  game  and  yet  how 
well  she  was  doing  it.  "She's  only  a  straight-laced 
kid  after  all,"  he  thought.  "She's  put  her  whole 
heart  and  soul  into  this  thing.  There's  a  look 
about  the  top  part  of  her  face  when  it's  softened 
that's  a  little  like  Ellen's."  Ellen  was  his  dead 
fiancee — the  girl  in  the  photograph  at  home  in 
his  desk. 

"I  guess  I'll  stay  here,"  Eleanor  said  aloud,  "all 
in  one  place,  and  study  with  Mademoiselle." 

It  was  a  decision  that,  on  the  whole,  she  never 
regretted. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
BROOK  AND  RIVER 

64CJTANDING  with  reluctant  feet, 
k3  Where  the  brook  and  river  meet." 
"I  think  it's  a  good  plan  to  put  a  quotation  like 
Kipling  at  the  top  of  the  page  whenever  I  write 
anything  in  this  diary,"  Eleanor  began  in  the 
smart  leather  bound  book  with  her  initials  stamped 
in  black  on  the  red  cover — the  new  private  diary 
that  had  been  Peter's  gift  to  her  on  the  occasion 
of  her  fifteenth  birthday  some  months  before.  "I 
think  it  is  a  very  expressive  thing  to  do.  The 
quotation  above  is  one  that  expresses  me,  and  I 
think  it  is  beautiful  too.  Miss  Hadley — that's  my 
English  teacher — the  girls  call  her  Haddock  be- 
cause she  does  look  rather  like  a  fish — says  that 
it's  undoubtedly  one  of  the  most  poignant  de- 
scriptions of  adolescent  womanhood  ever  made.  I 
made  a  note  to  look  up  adolescent,  but  didn't. 
Bertha  Stephens  has  my  dictionary,  and  won't 

158 


BROOK  AND  RIVER 

bring  it  back  because  the  leaves  are  all  stuck  to- 
gether with  fudge,  and  she  thinks  she  ought  to 
buy  me  a  new  one.  It  is  very  honorable  of  her 
to  feel  that  way,  but  she  never  will.  Good  old 
Stevie,  she's  a  great  borrower. 

"  'Neither  a  borrower  nor  a  lender  be, 

For  borrowing  dulls  the  edge  of  husbandry.' 

"Shakespeare. 

"Well,  I  hardly  know  where  to  begin.  I 
thought  I  would  make  a  resume  of  some  of  the 
events  of  the  last  year.  I  was  only  fourteen  then, 
but  still  I  did  a  great  many  things  that  might  be 
of  interest  to  me  in  my  declining  years  when  I 
look  back  into  the  annals  of  this  book.  To  begin 
with  I  was  only  a  freshie  at  Harmon.  It  is  very 
different  to  be  a  sophomore.  I  can  hardly  believe 
that  I  was  once  a  shivering  looking  little  thing 
like  all  the  freshmen  that  came  in  this  year.  I 
was  very  frightened,  but  did  not  think  I  showed  it. 

"'Oh!  wad  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us, 
To  see  ourselves  as  others  see  us.' 


159 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"Robert  Burns  had  twins  and  a  rather  bad 
character,  but  after  he  met  his  bonnie  Jean  he 
wrote  very  beautiful  poetry.  A  poet's  life  is 
usually  sad  anyhow — full  of  disappointment  and 
pain — but  I  digress. 

"I  had  two  years  with  Mademoiselle  at  the 
Boilings'  instead  of  one  the  way  we  planned.  I 
haven't  written  in  my  Private  Diary  since  the 
night  of  that  momentous  decision  that  I  was  to 
stay  in  one  place  instead  of  taking  turns  visiting 
my  cooperative  parents.  I  went  to  another  school 
one  year  before  I  came  to  Harmon,  and  that 
brings  me  to  the  threshold  of  my  fourteenth  year. 
If  I  try  to  go  back  any  farther,  I'll  never  catch  up. 
I  spent  that  vacation  with  Aunt  Margaret  in  a 
cottage  on  Long  Island  with  her  sister,  and  her 
sister's  boy,  who  has  grown  up  to  be  the  silly 
kind  that  wants  to  kiss  you  and  pull  your  hair, 
and  those  things.  Aunt  Margaret  is  so  lovely  I 
can't  think  of  words  to  express  it.  'Oh!  rare  pale 
Margaret,'  as  Tennyson  says.  She  wears  her  hair 
in  a  coronet  braid  around  the  top  of  her  head, 
and  all  her  clothes  are  the  color  of  violets  or  a 
soft  dovey  gray  or  white,  though  baby  blue  looks 
nice  on  her  especially  when  she  wears  a  fishyou. 

160 


BROOK  AND  RIVER 

"I  went  down  to  Cape  Cod  for  a  week  before 
I  came  to  Harmon,  and  while  I  was  there  my 
grandmother  died.  I  can't  write  about  that  in 
this  diary.  I  loved  my  grandmother  and  my  grand- 
mother loved  me.  Uncle  Peter  came,  and  took  charge 
of  everything.  He  has  great  strength  that  holds 
you  up  in  trouble. 

"The  first  day  I  came  to  Harmon  I  saw  the 
girl  I  wanted  for  my  best  friend,  and  so  we 
roomed  together,  and  have  done  so  ever  since. 
Her  name  is  Margaret  Louise  Hodges,  but  she 
is  called  Maggie  Lou  by  every  one.  She  has  dark 
curly  hair,  and  deep  brown  eyes,  and  a  very 
silvery  voice.  I  have  found  out  that  she  lies 
some,  but  she  says  it  is  because  she  had  such  an 
unhappy  childhood,  and  has  promised  to  over- 
come it  for  my  sake. 

"That  Christmas  vacation  the  'We  Are  Sevens' 
went  up  the  Hudson  to  the  Boilings'  again,  but 
that  was  the  last  time  they  ever  went  there.  Uncle 
David  and  his  mother  had  a  terrible  fight  over 
them.  I  was  sorry  for  Madam  Boiling  in  a  way. 
There  was  a  girl  she  wanted  Uncle  David  to 
marry,  a  rich  girl  who  looked  something  like 
Cleopatra,  very  dark  complexioned  with  burning 

161 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

eyes.  She  had  a  sweet  little  Pekinese  something 
like  Zaidee. 

"Uncle  David  said  that  gold  could  never  buy 
him,  and  to  take  her  away,  but  Madam  Boiling 
was  very  angry,  of  course.  She  accused  him  of 
wanting  to  marry  Aunt  Margaret,  and  called  her 
a  characterless,  faded  blonde.  Then  it  was  Uncle 
David's  turn  to  get  angry,  and  I  have  never  seen 
any  one  get  any  angrier,  and  he  told  about  the 
vow  of  celibacy,  and  how  instead  of  having  de- 
signs on  him  the  whole  crowd  would  back  him  up 
in  his  struggle  to  stay  single.  It  was  an  awful 
row.  I  told  Madam  Boiling  that  I  would  help 
her  to  get  Uncle  David  back,  and  I  did,  but  she 
never  forgave  the  other  aunts  and  uncles.  I  sup- 
pose the  feelings  of  a  mother  would  prompt  her 
to  want  Uncle  David  settled  down  with  a  rich  and 
fashionable  girl  who  would  soon  be  the  mother 
of  a  lot  of  lovely  children.  I  can't  imagine  a 
Cleopatra  looking  baby,  but  she  might  have  boys 
that  looked  like  Uncle  David. 

"Vacations  are  really  about  all  there  is  to 
school.  Freshman  year  is  mostly  grinding  and 
stuffing.  Having  six  parents  to  send  you  boxes 

162 


BROOK  AND  RIVER 

of  'grub'  is  better  than  having  only  two.  Some 
of  the  girls  are  rather  selfish  about  the  eats,  and 
come  in  and  help  themselves  boldly  when  you  are 
out  of  the  room.  Maggie  Lou  puts  up  signs  over 
the  candy  box :  'Closed  for  Repairs,'  or  'No  Tres- 
passing by  Order  of  the  Board  of  Health,'  but 
they  don't  pay  much  attention.  Well,  last  summer 
vacation  I  spent  with  Uncle  Jimmie.  I  wouldn't 
tell  this,  but  I  reformed  him.  I  made  him  sign 
the  pledge.  I  don't  know  what  pledge  it  was  be- 
cause I  didn't  read  it,  but  he  said  he  was  addicted 
to  something  worse  than  anything  I  could  think 
of,  and  if  somebody  didn't  pull  him  up,  he 
wouldn't  answer  for  the  consequences.  I  asked 
him  why  he  didn't  choose  Aunt  Gertrude  to  do  it, 
and  he  groaned  only.  So  I  said  to  write  out  a 
pledge,  and  sign  it  and  I  would  be  the  witness. 
We  were  at  a  hotel  with  his  brother's  family.  It 
isn't  proper  any  more  for  me  to  go  around  with 
my  uncles  unless  I  have  a  chaperon.  Mademoi- 
selle says  that  I  oughtn't  even  to  go  down-town 
alone  with  them  but,  of  course,  that  is  French 
etiquette,  and  not  American.  Well,  there  were 
lots  of  pretty  girls  at  this  hotel,  all  wearing  white 

163 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

and  pink  dresses,  and  carrying  big  bell  shaped 
parasols  of  bright  colors.  They  looked  sweet, 
like  so  many  flowers,  but  Uncle  Jimmie  just  about 
hated  the  sight  of  them.  He  said  they  were  not 
girls  at  all,  but  just  pink  and  white  devices  of 
the  devil.  On  the  whole  he  didn't  act  much  like 
my  merry  uncle,  but  we  had  good  times  together 
playing  tennis  and  golf,  and  going  on  parties  with 
his  brother's  family,  all  mere  children  but  the 
mother  and  father.  Uncle  Jimmie  was  afraid  to 
go  and  get  his  mail  all  summer,  although  he  had 
a  great  many  letters  on  blue  and  lavender  note 
paper  scented  with  Roger  et  Gallet's  violet,  and 
Hudnut's  carnation.  We  used  to  go  down  to  the 
beach  and  make  bonfires  and  burn  them  unread, 
and  then  toast  marshmallows  in  their  ashes.  He 
said  that  they  were  communications  from  the 
spirits  of  the  dead.  I  should  have  thought  that 
they  were  from  different  girls,  but  he  seemed  to 
hate  the  sight  of  girls  so  much.  Once  I  asked 
him  if  he  had  ever  had  an  unhappy  love-affair, 
just  to  see  what  he  would  say,  but  he  replied  'no, 
they  had  all  been  happy  ones,'  and  groaned  and 
groaned. 

"Aunt  Beulah  has  changed  too.     She  has  be- 

164 


BROOK  AND  RIVER 

come  a  suffragette  and  thinks  only  of  getting 
women  their  rights  and  their  privileges. 

"Maggie  Lou  is  an  anti,  and  we  have  long  argu- 
ments about  the  cause.  She  says  that  woman's 
place  is  in  the  home,  but  I  say  look  at  me,  who 
have  no  home,  how  can  I  wash  and  bake  and 
brew  like  the  women  of  my  grandfather's  day, 
visiting  around  the  way  I  do?  And  she  says  that 
it  is  the  principle  of  the  thing  that  is  involved, 
and  I  ought  to  take  a  stand  for  or  against.  Every- 
body has  so  many  different  arguments  that  I  don't 
know  what  I  think  yet,  but  some  day  I  shall  make 
up  my  mind  for  good. 

"Well,  that  about  brings  me  up  to  the  present. 
I  meant  to  describe  a  few  things  in  detail,  but  I 
guess  I  will  not  begin  on  the  past  in  that  way.  I 
don't  get  so  awfully  much  time  to  write  in  this 
diary  because  of  the  many  interruptions  of  school 
life,  and  the  way  the  monitors  snoop  in  study 
hours.  I  don't  know  who  I  am  going  to  spend 
my  Christmas  holidays  with.  I  sent  Uncle  Peter 
a  poem  three  days  ago,  but  he  has  not  answered  it 
yet.  I'm  afraid  he  thought  it  was  very  silly.  I 
don't  hardly  know  what  it  means  myself.  It  goes 
as  follows: 


165 


"A  Song 

"The  moon  is  very  pale  to-night, 

The  summer  wind  swings  high, 
I  seek  the  temple  of  delight, 
And  feel  my  love  draw  nigh. 

"I  seem  to  feel  his  fragrant  breath 

Upon  my  glowing  cheek. 
Between  us  blows  the  wind  of  death,— 
I  shall  not  hear  him  speak. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  like  to  write  love  poems, 
but  most  of  the  women  poets  did.  This  one  made 
me  cry." 


CHAPTER  XIV 
MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

MARGARET  in  mauve  velvet  and  violets, 
and  Gertrude  in  a  frock  of  smart  black 
and  white  were  in  the  act  of  meeting  by  appoint- 
ment at  Sherry's  one  December  afternoon,  with 
a  comfortable  cup  of  tea  in  mind.  Gertrude 
emerged  from  the  recess  of  the  revolving  door 
and  Margaret,  sitting  eagerly  by  the  entrance, 
almost  upset  the  attendant  in  her  rush  to  her 
friend's  side 

"Oh!  Gertrude,"  she  cried,  "I'm  so  glad  to  see 
you.  My  family  is  trying  to  cut  me  up  in  neat 
little  quarters  and  send  me  north,  south,  east  and 
west,  for  the  Christmas  holidays,  and  I  want  to 
stay  home  and  have  Eleanor.  How  did  I  ever 
come  to  be  born  into  a  family  of  giants,  tell  me 
that,  Gertrude?" 

"The  choice  of  parents  is  thrust  upon  us  at  an 
unfortunately  immature  period,  I'll  admit,"  Ger- 
trude laughed.  "My  parents  are  dears,  but  they've 
never  forgiven  me  for  being  an  artist  instead  of 

167 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

a  dubby  bud.  Shall  we  have  tea  right  away  or 
shall  we  sit  down  and  discuss  life?" 

"Both,"  Margaret  said.  "I  don't  know  which 
is  the  hungrier — flesh  or  spirit." 

"But  as  they  turned  toward  the  dining-room  a 
familiar  figure  blocked  their  progress. 

"I  thought  that  was  Gertrude's  insatiable  hat," 
David  exclaimed  delightedly.  "I've  phoned  for 
you  both  until  your  families  have  given  instruc- 
tions that  I'm  not  to  be  indulged  any  more.  I've 
got  a  surprise  for  you. — Taxi,"  he  said  to  the 
man  at  the  door. 

"Not  till  we've  had  our  tea,"  Margaret  wailed. 
"You  couldn't  be  so  cruel,  David." 

''You  shall  have  your  tea,  my  dear,  and  one  of 
the  happiest  surprises  of  your  life  into  the  bar- 
gain," David  assured  her  as  he  led  the  way  to  the 
waiting  cab. 

"I  wouldn't  leave  this  place  unfed  for  anybody 
but  you,  David,  not  if  it  were  ever  so,  and  then 
some,  as  Jimmie  says." 

"What's  the  matter  with  Jimmie,  anyhow?" 
David  inquired  as  the  taxi  turned  down  the 
Avenue  and  immediately  entangled  itself  in  a 
hopeless  mesh  of  traffic. 

168 


MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

"I  don't  know;  why?"  Gertrude  answered, 
though  she  had  not  been  the  one  addressed  at  the 
moment.  "What's  the  matter  with  this  hat?"  she 
rattled  on  without  waiting-  for  an  answer.  "I 
thought  it  was  good-looking  myself,  and  Madam 
Paran  robbed  me  for  it." 

"It  is  good-looking,"  David  allowed.  "It  seems 
to  be  a  kind  of  retrieving  hat,  that's  all.  Keeps 
you  in  a  rather  constant  state  of  looking  after  the 
game." 

"What  about  my  hat,  David?''  Margaret  in- 
quired anxiously.  "Do  you  like  that?" 

"I  do,"  David  admitted.  "I'm  crazy  about  it. 
It's  a  lovely  cross  between  the  style  affected  by 
the  late  Emperor  Napoleon  and  my  august  grand- 
mother, with  some  frills  added." 

The  chauffeur  turned  into  a  cross  street  and 
stopped  abruptly  before  an  imposing  but  apparently 
unguarded  entrance. 

"Why,  I  thought  this  was  a  studio  building," 
Gertrude  said.  "David,  if  you're  springing  a  tea 
party  on  us,  and  we  in  the  wild  ungovernable 
state  we  are  at  present,  I'll  shoot  the  way  my  hat 
is  pointing." 

"Straight    through    my    left    eye-glass,"    David 

169 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

finished.  "You  wait  till  you  see  the  injustice  you 
have  done  me." 

But  Margaret,  who  often  understood  what  was 
happening  a  few  moments  before  the  revelation  of 
it,  clutched  at  his  elbow. 

"Oh!  David,  David,"  she  whispered,  "how 
wonderful !" 

"Wait  till  you  see,"  David  said,  and  herded 
them  into  the  elevator. 

Their  destination  was  the  top  floor  but  one. 
David  hurried  them  around  the  bend  in  the  sleekly 
carpeted  corridor  and  touched  the  bell  on  the 
right  of  the  first  door  they  came  to.  It  opened 
almost  instantly  and  David's  man,  who  was  French, 
stood  bowing  and  smiling  on  the  threshold. 

"Mr.  Styvvisont  has  arrive',"  he  said;  "he  waits 
you." 

"Welcome  to  our  city,"  Peter  cried,  appearing 
in  the  doorway  of  the  room  Alphonse  was  indi- 
cating with  that  high  gesture  of  delight  with 
which  only  a  Frenchman  can  lead  the  way. 
"Jimmie's  coming  up  from  the  office  and  Beulah's 
due  any  minute.  What  do  you  think  of  the  place, 
girls?" 

"Is  it  really  yours,  David?" 

170 


MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

"Surest  thing  you  know."  He  grinned  like  a 
schoolboy.  "It's  really  ours,  that's  what  it  is. 
I've  broken  away  from  the  mater  at  last,"  he 
added  a  little  sheepishly.  "I'm  going  to  work 
seriously.  I've  got  an  all-day  desk  job  in  my 
uncle's  office  and  I'm  going  to  dig  in  and  see  what 
I  can  make  of  myself.  Also,  this  is  going  to  be 
our  headquarters,  and  Eleanor's  permanent  home 
if  we're  all  agreed  upon  it, — but  look  around, 
ladies.  Don't  spare  my  blushes.  If  you  think  I 
can  interior  decorate,  just  tell  me  so  frankly.  This 
is  the  living-room." 

"It's  like  that  old  conundrum — black  and  white 
and  red  all  over,"  Gertrude  said.  "I  never  saw 
anything  so  stunning  in  all  my  life." 

"Gosh!  I  admire  your  nerve,"  Peter  cried, 
"papering  this  place  in  white,  and  then  getting  in 
all  this  heavy  carved  black  stuff,  and  the  red  in 
the  tapestries  and  screens  and  pillows." 

"I  wanted  it  to  look  studioish  a  little,"  David 
explained,  "I  wanted  to  get  away  from  Louis 
Quartorze." 

"And  drawing-rooms  like  mother  used  to  make," 
Gertrude  suggested.  "I  like  your  Oriental  touches. 
Do  you  see,  Margaret,  everything  is  Indian  or 

171 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

Chinese?  The  ubiquitous  Japanese  print  is  con- 
spicuous by  its  absence." 

"I've  got  two  portfolios  full  of  'em,"  David 
said,  "and  I  always  have  one  or  two  up  in  the 
bedrooms.  I  change  'em  around,  you  know,  the 
way  the  Japs  do  themselves,  a  different  scene 
every  few  days  and  the  rest  decently  out  of  sight 
till  you're  ready  for  'em." 

"It's  like  a  fairy  story,"  Margaret  said. 

"I  thought  you'd  appreciate  what  little  Arabian 
Nights  I  was  able  to  introduce.  I  bought  that 
screen,"  he  indicated  a  sweep  of  Chinese  line  and 
color,  "with  my  eye  on  you,  and  that  Aladdin's 
lamp  is  yours,  of  course.  You're  to  come  in  here 
and  rub  it  whenever  you  like,  and  your  heart's 
desire  will  instantly  be  vouchsafed  to  you." 

"What  will  Eleanor  say?"  Peter  suggested,  as 
David  led  the  way  through  the  corridor  and  up 
the  tiny  stairs  which  led  to  the  more  intricate 
part  of  the  establishment.  "This  is  her  room, 
didn't  you  say,  David?"  He  paused  on  the 
threshold  of  a  bedroom  done  in  ivory  white  and 
yellow,  with  all  its  hangings  of  a  soft  golden  silk. 

"She  once  said  that  she  wanted  a  yellow  room," 
David  said,  "a  daffy-down-dilly  room,  and  I've 

172 


MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

tried  to  get  her  one.  I  know  last  year  that  Maggie 
Lou  child  refused  to  have  yellow  curtains  in  that 
flatiron  shaped  sitting-room  of  theirs,  and  Eleanor 
refused  to  be  comforted." 

A  wild  whoop  in  the  below  stairs  announced 
Jimmie;  and  Beulah  arrived  simultaneously  with 
the  tea  tray.  Jimmie  was  ecstatic  when  the  actual 
function  of  the  place  was  explained  to  him. 

"Headquarters  is  the  one  thing  we've  lacked," 
he  said ;  "a  place  of  our  own,  hully  gee !  It  makes 
me  feel  almost  human  again." 

"You  haven't  been  feeling  altogether  human 
lately,  have  you,  Jimmie?"  Margaret  asked  over 
her  tea  cup. 

"No,  dear,  I  haven't."  Jimmie  flashed  her  a 
grateful  smile.  "I'm  a  bad  egg,"  he  explained  to 
her  darkly,  "and  the  only  thing  you  can  do  with 
me  is  to  scramble  me." 

"Scrambled  is  just  about  the  way  I  should  have 
described  your  behavior  of  late, — but  that's  Ger- 
trude's line,"  David  said.  "Only  she  doesn't  seem 
to  be  taking  an  active  part  in  the  conversation. 
Aren't  you  Jimmie's  keeper  any  more,  Gertrude?" 

"Not  since  she's  come  back  from  abroad,"  Jim- 
mie muttered  without  looking  at  her. 

173 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"Eleanor's  taken  the  job  over  now,"  Peter  said. 
"She's  made  him  swear  off  red  ink  and  red 
neckties." 

"Any  color  so  long's  it's  red  is  the  color  that 
suits  me  best,"  Jimmie  quoted.  "Lord,  isn't  this 
room  a  pippin?"  He  swam  in  among  the  bright 
pillows  of  the  divan  and  so  hid  his  face  for  a 
moment.  It  had  been  a  good  many  weeks  since 
he  had  seen  Gertrude. 

"I  want  to  give  a  suffrage  tea  here,"  Beulah 
broke  in  suddenly.  "It's  so  central,  but  I  don't 
suppose  David  would  hear  of  it." 

"Angels  and  Ministers  of  Grace  defend  us — " 
Peter  began. 

"My  mother  would  hear  of  it,"  David  said,  "and 
then  there  wouldn't  be  any  little  studio  any  more. 
She  doesn't  believe  in  votes  for  women." 

"How  any  woman  in  this  day  and  age — " 
Beulah  began,  and  thought  better  of  it,  since  she 
was  discussing  Mrs.  Boiling. 

"Makes  your  blood  boil,  doesn't  it — Beulah- 
land?"  Gertrude  suggested  helpfully,  reaching  for 
the  tea  cakes.  "Never  mind,  I'll  vote  for  women. 
I'll  march  in  your  old  peerade." 

"The  Lord  helps  those  that  help  themselves," 

174 


MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

Peter  said,  "that's  why  Gertrude  is  a  suffragist. 
She  believes  in  helping  herself,  in  every  sense, 
don't  you,  Trude?"  j 

"Not  quite  in  every  sense,"  Gertrude  said  gravely. 
"Sometimes  I  feel  like  that  girl  that  Margaret 
describes  as  caught  in  a  horrid  way  between  two 
generations.  I'm  neither  old-fashioned  nor 
modern." 

"I'd  rather  be  that  way  than  early  Victorian," 
Margaret  sighed. 

"Speaking  of  the  latest  generation,  has  any- 
body any  objection  to  having  our  child  here  for 
the  holidays?"  David  asked.  "My  idea  is  to  have 
one  grand  Christmas  dinner.  I  suppose  we'll  all 
have  to  eat  one  meal  with  our  respective  families, 
but  can't  we  manage  to  get  together  here  for  din- 
ner at  night?  Don't  you  think  that  we  could?" 

"We  can't,  but  we  will,"  Margaret  murmured. 
"Of  course,  have  Eleanor  here.  I  wanted  her 
with  me  but  the  family  thought  otherwise.  They've 
been  trying  to  send  me  away  for  my  health, 
David." 

"Well,  they  shan't.  You'll  stay  in  New  York 
for  your  health  and  come  to  my  party." 

"Margaret's  health  is  merely  a  matter  of  Mar- 

175 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

garet's  happiness  anyhow.  Her  soul  and  her  body 
are  all  one,"  Gertrude  said. 

"Then  cursed  be  he  who  brings  anything  but 
happiness  to  Margaret,"  Peter  said,  to  which 
sentiment  David  added  a  solemn  "Amen." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't,"  Margaret  said,  shivering 
a  little,  "I  feel  as  if  some  one  were — were — " 

"Trampling  the  violets  on  your  grave,"  Ger- 
trude finished  for  her. 

Christmas  that  year  fell  on  a  Monday,  and 
Eleanor  did  not  leave  school  till  the  Friday  before 
the  great  day.  Owing  to  the  exigencies  of  the 
holiday  season  none  of  her  guardians  came  to  see 
her  before  the  dinner  party  itself.  Even  David 
was  busy  with  his  mother — installed  now  for  a 
few  weeks  in  the  hotel  suite  that  would  be  her 
home  until  the  opening  of  the  season  at  Palm 
Beach — and  had  only  a  few  hurried  words  with 
her.  Mademoiselle,  whom  he  had  imported  for 
the  occasion,  met  her  at  the  station  and  helped  her 
to  do  her  modest  shopping  which  consisted  chiefly 
of  gifts  for  her  beloved  aunts  and  uncles.  She 
had  arranged  these  things  lovingly  at  their  plates, 
and  fled  to  dress  when  they  began  to  assemble  for 

176 


MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

the  celebration.  The  girls  were  the  first  arrivals. 
Then  Peter. 

"How's  our  child,  David?"  Gertrude  asked.  "I 
had  a  few  minutes'  talk  with  her  over  the  tele- 
phone and  she  seemed  to  be  flourishing." 

"She  is,"  David  answered.  "She's  grown  sev- 
eral feet  since  we  last  saw  her.  They've  been 
giving  scenes  from  Shakespeare  at  school  and 
she's  been  playing  Juliet,  it  appears.  She  has 
had  a  fight  with  another  girl  about  suffrage — I 
don't  know  which  side  she  was  on,  Beulah,  I  am 
merely  giving  you  the  facts  as  they  came  to  me — 
and  the  other  girl  was  so  unpleasant  about  it  that 
she  has  been  visited  by  just  retribution  in  the  form 
of  the  mumps,  and  had  to  be  sent  home  and 
quarantined." 

"Sounds  a  bit  priggish,"  Peter  suggested. 

"Not  really,"  David  said,  "she's  as  sound  as  a 
nut.  She's  only  going  through  the  different  stages." 

"To  pass  deliberately  through  one's  ages," 
Beulah  quoted,  "is  to  get  the  heart  out  of  a  liberal 
education." 

"Bravo,  Beulah,"  Gertrude  cried,  "you're  quite 
in  your  old  form  to-night." 

177 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"Is  she  just  the  same  little  girl,  David?"  Mar- 
garet asked. 

"Just  the  same.  She  really  seems  younger  than 
ever.  I  don't  know  why  she  doesn't  come  down. 
There  she  is,  I  guess.  No,  it's  only  Alphonse 
letting  in  Jimmie." 

Jimmie,  whose  spirits  seemed  to  have  revived 
under  the  holiday  influence,  was  staggering  under 
the  weight  of  his  parcels.  The  Christmas  presents 
had  already  accumulated  to  a  considerable  mound 
on  the  couch.  Margaret  was  brooding  over  them 
and  trying  not  to  look  greedy.  She  was  still 
very  much  of  a  child  herself  in  relation  to  Santa 
Claus. 

"Merry  Christmas!"  Jimmie  cried.  "Where's 
my  cheild?" 

"Coming,"  David  said. 

"Look  at  the  candy  kids.  My  eyes — but  you're 
a  slick  trio,  girls.  Pale  lavender,  pale  blue,  and 
pale  pink,  and  all  quite  sophisticatedly  decollete. 
You  go  with  the  decorations,  too.  I  don't  know 
quite  why  you  do,  but  you  do." 

"Give  honor  where  honor  is  due,  dearie.  That's 
owing  to  the  cleverness  of  the  decorator,"  David 
said. 


178 


'I  thought"— she  looked  about  her  appealingly— "you  might  like  it 
— for  a  surprise" 


MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

"No  man  calls  me  dearie  and  lives  to  tell  the 
tale,"  Jimmie  remarked  almost  dreamily  as  he 
squared  off.  "How'll  you  have  it,  Dave?" 

But  at  that  instant  there  was  an  unexpected  in- 
terruption. Alphonse  threw  open  the  big  entrance 
door  at  the  farther  end  of  the  long  room  with  a 
flourish. 

"Mademoiselle  Juliet  Capulet,"  he  proclaimed 
with  the  grand  air,  and  then  retired  behind  his 
hand,  smiling  broadly. 

Framed  in  the  high  doorway,  complete,  cap  and 
curls,  softly  rounding  bodice,  and  the  long,  straight 
lines  of  the  Renaissance,  stood  Juliet — Juliet,  im- 
memorial, immortal,  young — austerely  innocent 
and  delicately  shy,  already  beautiful,  and  yet 
potential  of  all  the  beauty  and  the  wisdom  of  the 
world. 

"I've  never  worn  these  clothes  before  anybody 
but  the  girls  before,"  Eleanor  said,  "but  I 
thought" — she  looked  about  her  appealingly — "you 
might  like  it — for  a  surprise." 

"Great  jumping  Jehoshaphat,"  Jimmie  exclaimed, 
"I  thought  you  said  she  was  the  same  little  girl, 
David." 

"She  was  half  an  hour  ago,"  David  answered, 

179 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"I  never  saw  such  a  metamorphosis.  In  fact,  I 
don't  think  I  ever  saw  Juliet  before." 

"She  is  the  thing  itself,"  Gertrude  answered, 
the  artist  in  her  sobered  by  the  vision. 

But  Peter  passed  a  dazed  hand  over  his  eyes 
and  stared  at  the  delicate  figure  advancing  to  him. 

"My  God!  she's  a  woman,"  he  said,  and  drew 
the  hard  breath  of  a  man  just  awakened  from 
sleep. 


CHAPTER  XV 

V 

GROWING  UP 

4  4  "TXEAR  Uncle  Jimmie : 

JL-/  "It  was  a  pleasant  surprise  to  get  letters 
from  every  one  of  my  uncles  the  first  week  I  got 
back  to  school.  It  was  unprecedented.  You  wrote 
me  two  letters  last  year,  Uncle  David  six,  and 
Uncle  Peter  sixteen.  He  is  the  best  correspondent, 
but  perhaps  that  is  because  I  ask  him  the  most 
advice.  The  Christmas  party  was  lovely.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  expressions  on  all  the  different 
faces  when  I  came  down  in  my  Juliet  suit.  I 
thought  at  first  that  no  one  liked  me  in  it,  but  I 
guess  they  did. 

"You  know  how  well  I  liked  my  presents  because 
you  heard  my  wild  exclamations  of  delight.  I 
never  had  such  a  nice  Christmas.  It  was  sweet 
of  the  We  Are  Sevens  to  get  me  that  ivory  set, 
and  to  know  that  every  different  piece  was  the 
loving  thought  of  a  different  aunt  or  uncle.  I 
love  the  yellow  monogram.  It  looks  entirely 
unique,  and  I  like  to  have  things  that  are  not 

181 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

like  anybody  else's  in  the  world,  don't  you,  Uncle 
Jimmie?  I  am  glad  you  liked  your  cuff  links. 
They  are  'neat/  but  not  'gaudy.'  You  play  golf 
so  well  1  thought  a  golf  stick  was  a  nice  emblem 
for  you,  and  would  remind  you  of  me  and  last 
summer. 

"I  am  glad  you  think  it  is  easier  to  keep  your 
pledge  now.  I  made  a  New  Year's  resolution  to 
go  without  chocolates,  and  give  the  money  they 
would  cost  to  some  good  cause,  but  it's  hard  to 
pick  out  a  cause,  or  to  decide  exactly  how  much 
money  you  are  saving.  I  can  eat  the  chocolates 
that  are  sent  to  me,  however!!!! 

"Uncle  David  said  that  he  thought  you  were 
not  like  yourself  lately,  but  you  seemed  just  the 
same  to  me  Christmas,  only  more  affectionate.  I 
love  you  very  much.  I  was  really  only  joking 
about  the  chocolates.  Eleanor." 

"Dear  Uncle  David: 

"I  was  glad  to  get  your  nice  letter.  You  did 
not  have  to  write  in  response  to  my  bread  and 
butter  letter,  but  I  am  glad  you  did.  When  I  am 
at  school,  and  getting  letters  all  the  time  I  feel  as 
if  I  were  living  two  beautiful  lives  all  at  once,  the 

182 


GROWING  UP 

life  of  a  'cooperative  child'  and  the  life  of 
Eleanor  Hamlin,  schoolgirl,  both  together.  Let- 
ters make  the  people  you  love  seem  very  near  to 
you,  don't  you  think  they  do?  I  sleep  with  all 
my  letters  under  my  pillow  whenever  I  feel  the 
least  little  bit  homesick,  and  they  almost  seem  to 
breathe  sometimes. 

"School  is  the  same  old  school.  Maggie  Lou 
had  a  wrist  watch,  too,  for  Christmas,  but  not  so 
pretty  as  the  one  you  gave  me.  Miss  Hadley  says 
I  do  remarkable  work  in  English  whenever  I  feel 
like  it.  I  don't  know  whether  that's  a  compliment 
or  not.  I  took  Kris  Kringle  for  the  subject  of  a 
theme  the  other  day,  and  represented  him  as  caught 
in  an  iceberg  in  the  grim  north,  and  not  being 
able  to  reach  all  the  poor  little  children  in  the 
tenements  and  hovels.  The  Haddock  said  it 
showed  imagination. 

"There  was  a  lecture  at  school  on  Emerson  the 
other  day.  The  speaker  was  a  noted  literary 
lecturer  from  New  York.  He  had  wonderful 
waving  hair,  more  like  Pader — I  can't  spell  him, 
but  you  know  who  I  mean — than  Uncle  Jimmie's, 
but  a  little  like  both.  He  introduced  some  very 
noble  thoughts  in  his  discourse,  putting  perfectly 

183 


JURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

old  ideas  in  a  new  way  that  made  you  think  a  lot 
more  of  them.  I  think  a  tall  man  like  that  with 
waving  hair  can  do  a  great  deal  of  good  as  a 
lecturer,  because  you  listen  a  good  deal  more  re- 
spectfully than  if  they  were  plain  looking.  His 
voice  sounded  a  good  deal  like  what  I  imagine 
Romeo's  voice  did.  I  had  a  nice  letter  from 
Madam  Boiling.  I  love  you,  and  I  have  come  to 
the  bottom  of  the  sheet.  Eleanor." 

"Dear  Uncle  Peter : 

"I  have  just  written  to  my  other  uncles,  so  I 
won't  write  you  a  long  letter  this  time.  They 
deserve  letters  because  of  being  so  unusually 
prompt  after  the  holidays.  You  always  deserve 
letters,  but  not  specially  now,  any  more  than  any 
other  time. 

"Uncle  Peter,  I  wrote  to  my  grandfather.  It 
seems  funny  to  think  of  Albertina's  aunt  taking 
care  of  him  now  that  Grandma  is  gone.  I  sup- 
pose Albertina  is  there  a  lot.  She  sent  me  a  post 
card  for  Christmas.  I  didn't  send  her  any. 

"Uncle  Peter,  I  miss  my  grandmother  out  of  the 
world.  I  remember  how  I  used  to  take  care  of 
her,  and  put  a  soapstone  in  the  small  of  her  back 

184 


GROWING  UP 

when  she  was  cold.  I  wish  sometimes  that  I  could 
hold  your  hand,  Uncle  Peter,  when  I  get  thinking 
about  it. 

"Well,  school  is  the  same  old  school.  Bertha 
Stephens  has  a  felon  on  her  finger,  and  that  lets 
her  out  of  hard  work  for  a  while.  I  will  enclose 
a  poem  suggested  by  a  lecture  I  heard  recently  on 
Emerson.  It  isn't  very  good,  but  it  will  help  to 
fill  up  the  envelope.  I  love  you,  and  love  you. 
Eleanor. 

"Life 

"Life  is  a  great,  a  noble  task, 

When  we  fulfill  our  duty. 
To  work,  that  should  be  all  we  ask, 

And  seek  the  living  beauty. 
We  know  not  whence  we  come,  or  where 

Our  dim  pathway  is  leading, 
Whether  we  tread  on  lilies  fair, 

Or  trample  love-lies-bleeding. 
But  we  must  onward  go  and  up, 

Nor  stop  to  question  whither. 
E'en  if  we  drink  the  bitter  cup, 

And  fall  at  last,  to  wither. 

"  P.  S.    I  haven't  got  the  last  verse  very  good 
185 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

yet,  but  I  think  the  second  one  is  pretty.  You 
know  'love-lies-bleeding'  is  a  flower,  but  it 
sounds  allegorical  the  way  I  have  put  it  in.  Don't 
you  think  so?  You  know  what  all  the  crosses 
stand  for." 

Eleanor's  fifteenth  year  was  on  the  whole  the 
least  eventful  year  of  her  life,  though  not  by  any 
means  the  least  happy.  She  throve  exceedingly, 
and  gained  the  freedom  and  poise  of  movement 
and  spontaneity  that  result  from  properly  balanced 
periods  of  work  and  play  and  healthful  exercise. 
From  being  rather  small  of  her  age  she  developed 
into  a  tall  slender  creature,  inherently  graceful  and 
erect,  with  a  small,  delicate  head  set  flower-wise 
on  a  slim  white  neck.  Gertrude  never  tired  of 
modeling  that  lovely  contour,  but  Eleanor  herself 
was  quite  unconscious  of  her  natural  advantages. 
She  preferred  the  snappy-eyed,  stocky,  ringleted 
type  of  beauty,  and  spent  many  unhappy  quarters 
of  an  hour  wishing  she  were  pretty  according  to 
the  inexorable  ideals  of  Harmon. 

She  spent  her  vacation  at  David's  apartment  in 
charge  of  Mademoiselle,  though  the  latter  part  of 
the  summer  she  went  to  Colhassett,  quite  by  her- 

186 


GROWING  UP. 

self  according  to  her  own  desire,  and  spent  a 
month  with  her  grandfather,  now  in  charge  of 
Albertina's  aunt.  She  found  Albertina  grown  into 
a  huge  girl,  sunk  in  depths  of  sloth  and  snobbish- 
ness, who  plied  her  with  endless  questions  con- 
cerning life  in  the  gilded  circles  of  New  York 
society.  Eleanor  found  her  disgusting  and  yet 
possessed  of  that  vague  fascination  that  the  assump- 
tion of  prerogative  often  carries  with  it. 

She  found  her  grandfather  very  old  and 
shrunken,  yet  perfectly  taken  care  of  and  with 
every  material  want  supplied.  She  realized  as 
she  had  never  done  before  how  the  faithful  six 
had  assumed  the  responsibility  of  this  household 
from  the  beginning,  and  how  the  old  people  had 
been  warmed  and  comforted  by  their  bounty.  She 
laughed  to  remember  her  simplicity  in  believing  that 
an  actual  salary  was  a  perquisite  of  her  adoption, 
and  understood  for  the  first  time  how  small  a 
part  of  the  expense  of  their  living  this  faithful 
stipend  had  defrayed.  She  looked  back  incred- 
ulously on  that  period  when  she  had  lived  with 
them  in  a  state  of  semi-starvation  on  the  corn 
meal  and  cereals  and  very  little  else  that  her 
dollar  and  a  half  a  week  had  purchased,  and  the 

187 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"garden  sass,"  that  her  grandfather  had  faithfully 
hoed  and  tended  in  the  straggling  patch  of 
plowed  field  that  he  would  hoe  and  tend  no 
more.  She  spent  a  month  practically  at  his  feet, 
listening  to  his  stories,,  helping  him  to  find  his 
pipe  and  tobacco  and.  glasses,  and  reading  the 
newspaper  to  him,  and  felt  amply  rewarded  by  his 
final  acknowledgment  that  she  was  a  good  girl 
and  he  would  as  soon  have  her  come  again  when- 
ever she  felt  like  it. 

On  her  way  back  to  school  she  spent  a  week 
with  her  friend,  Margaret  Louise,  in  the  Con- 
necticut town  where  she  lived  with  her  com- 
fortable, commonplace  family.  It  was  while  she 
was  on  this  visit  that  the  most  significant  event  of 
the  entire  year  took  place,  though  it  was  a  hap- 
pening that  she  put  out  of  her  mind  as  soon  as 
possible  and  never  thought  of  it  again  when  she 
could  possibly  avoid  it. 

Maggie  Lou  had  a  brother  of  seventeen,  and 
one  night  in  the  corner  of  a  moonlit  porch,  when 
they  happened  to  be  alone  for  a  half  hour,  he  had 
asked  Eleanor  to  kiss  him. 

"I  don't  want  to  kiss  you,"  Eleanor  said.  Then, 
not  wishing  to  convey  a  sense  of  any  personal 

188 


GROWING  UP 

dislike  to  the  brother  of  a  friend  to  whom  she 
was  so  sincerely  devoted,  she  added,  "I  don't 
know  you  well  enough." 

He  was  a  big  boy,  with  mocking  blue  eyes  and 
rough  tweed  clothes  that  hung  on  him  loosely. 

"When  you  know  me  better,  will  you  let  me 
kiss  you?"  he  demanded. 

"I  don't  know,"  Eleanor  said,  still  endeavoring 
to  preserve  the  amenities. 

He  took  her  hand  and  played  with  it  softly. 

"You're  an  awful  sweet  little  girl,"  he  said. 

"I  guess  I'll  go  in  now." 

"Sit  still.  Sister'll  be  back  in  a  minute."  He 
pulled  her  back  to  the  chair  from  which  she  had 
half  arisen.  "Don't  you  believe  in  kissing?" 

"I  don't  believe  in  kissing  you,"  she  tried  to 
say,  but  the  words  would  not  come.  She  could 
only  pray  for  deliverance  through  the  arrival  of 
some  member  of  the  family.  The  boy's  face  was 
close  to  hers.  It  looked  sweet  in  the  moonlight 
she  thought.  She  wished  he  would  talk  of  some- 
thing else  besides  kissing. 

"Don't  you  like  me?"  he  persisted. 

"Yes,  I  do."     She  was  very  uncomfortable. 

"Well,  then,  there's  no  more  to  be  said."     His 

189 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

lips  sought  hers  and  pressed  them.  His  breath 
came  heavily,  with  little  irregular  catches  in  it. 

She  pushed  him  away  and  turned  into  the  house. 

"Don't  be  angry,  Eleanor,"  he  pleaded,  trying  to 
snatch  at  her  hand. 

"I'm  not  angry,"  she  said,  her  voice  breaking, 
"I  just  wish  you  hadn't,  that's  all." 

There  was  no  reference  to  this  incident  in  the 
private  diary,  but,  with  an  instinct  which  would 
have  formed  an  indissoluble  bond  between  herself 
and  her  Uncle  Jimmie,  she  avoided  dimly  lit 
porches  and  boys  with  mischievous  eyes  and  broad 
tweed  covered  shoulders. 

For  her  guardians  too,  this  year  was  compar- 
atively smooth  running  and  colorless.  Beulah's 
militant  spirit  sought  the  assuagement  of  a  fierce 
expenditure  of  energy  on  the  work  that  came  to 
her  hand  through  her  new  interest  in  suffrage. 
Gertrude  flung  herself  into  her  sculpturing.  She 
had  been  hurt  as  only  the  young  can  be  hurt  when 
their  first  delicate  desires  come  to  naught.  She 
was  very  warm-blooded  and  eager  under  her  cool 
veneer,  and  she  had  spent  four  years  of  hard  work 
and  hungry  yearning  for  the  fulness  of  a  life  she 
was  too  constrained  to  get  any  emotional  hold  on. 

190 


GROWING  UP 

Her  fancy  for  Jimmie  she  believed  was  quite  over 
and  done  with. 

Margaret,  warmed  by  secret  fires  and  nourished 
by  the  stuff  that  dreams  are  made  of,  flourished 
strangely  in  her  attic  chamber,  and  learned  the 
wisdom  of  life  by  some  curious  method  of  her 
own  of  apprehending  its  dangers  and  delights.  The 
only  experiences  she  had  that  year  were  two  pro- 
posals of  marriage,  one  from  a  timid  professor  of 
the  romance  languages  and  the  other  from  a  young 
society  man,  already  losing  his  waist  line,  whose 
sensuous  spirit  had  been  stirred  by  the  ethereal 
grace  of  hers;  but  these  things  interested  her  very 
little.  She  was  the  princess,  spinning  fine  dreams 
and  waiting  for  the  dawning  of  the  golden  day 
when  the  prince  should  come  for  her.  Neither 
she  nor  Gertrude  ever  gave  a  serious  thought  to 
the  five-year-old  vow  of  celibacy,  which  was  to 
Beulah  as  real  and  as  binding  as  it  had  seemed  on 
the  first  day  she  took  it. 

Peter  and  David  and  Jimmie  went  their  own 
way  after  the  fashion  of  men,  all  of  them  identi- 
fied with  the  quickening  romance  of  New  York 
business  life.  David  in  Wall  Street  was  proving 
to  be  something  of  a  financier  to  his  mother's  sur- 

191 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

prise  and  amazement;  and  the  pressure  relaxed,  he 
showed  some  slight  initiative  in  social  matters.  In 
fact,  two  mothers,  who  were  on  Mrs.  Boiling's  list 
as  suitable  parents-in-law,  took  heart  of  grace  and 
began  angling  for  him  adroitly,  while  their  daugh- 
ters served  him  tea  and  made  unabashed,  modern- 
debutante  eyes  at  him. 

Jimmie,  successfully  working  his  way  up  to  the 
top  of  his  firm,  suffered  intermittently  from  his 
enthusiastic  abuse  of  the  privileges  of  liberty  and 
the  pursuit  of  happiness.  His  mind  and  soul  were 
in  reality  hot  on  the  trail  of  a  wife,  and  there  was 
no  woman  among  those  with  whom  he  habitually 
foregathered  whom  his  spirit  recognized  as  his  own 
woman.  He  was  further  rendered  helpless  and 
miserable  by  the  fact  that  he  had  not  the  slightest 
idea  of  his  trouble.  He  regarded  himself  as  a 
congenital  Don  Juan,  from  whom  his  better  self 
shrank  at  times  with  a  revulsion  of  loathing. 

Peter  felt  that  he  had  his  feet  very  firmly  on  a 
rather  uninspired  earth.  He  was  getting  on  in 
the  woolen  business,  which  happened  to  be  the 
vocation  his  father  had  handed  down  to  him.  He 
belonged  to  an  amusing  club,  and  he  still  felt  him- 
self irrevocably  widowed  by  the  early  death  of  the 

192 


GROWING  UP 

girl  in  the  photograph  he  so  faithfully  cherished. 
Eleanor  was  a  very  vital  interest  in  his  life.  It 
had  seemed  to  him  for  a  few  minutes  at  the 
Christmas  party  that  she  was  no  longer  the  little 
girl  he  had  known,  that  a  lovelier,  more  illusive 
creature — a  woman — had  come  to  displace  her,  but 
when  she  had  flung  her  arms  around  him  he  had 
realized  that  it  was  still  the  heart  of  a  child  beat- 
ing so  fondly  against  his  own. 

The  real  trouble  with  arrogating  to  ourselves 
the  privileges  of  parenthood  is  that  our  native  in- 
stincts are  likely  to  become  deflected  by  the  sub- 
stitution of  the  artificial  for  the  natural  responsi- 
bility. Both  Peter  and  David  had  the  unconscious 
feeling  that  their  obligation  to  their  race  was  met 
by  their  communal  interest  in  Eleanor.  Beulah, 
of  course,  sincerely  believed  that  the  filling  in  of 
an  intellectual  concept  of  life  was  all  that  was  re- 
quired of  her.  Only  Jimmie  groped  blindly  and  be- 
wilderedly  for  his  own.  Gertrude  and  Margaret 
both  understood  that  they  were  unnaturally  alone 
in  a  world  where  lovers  met  and  mated,  but  they, 
too,  hugged  to  their  souls  the  flattering  unction 
that  they  were  parents  of  a  sort. 

Thus  three   sets  of  perfectly  suitable  and  de- 

193 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

voted  young  men  and  women,  of  marriageable  age, 
with  dozens  of  interests  and  sympathies  in  com- 
mon, and  one  extraordinarily  vital  bond,  continued 
to  walk  side  by  side  in  a  state  of  inhuman  pre- 
occupation, their  gaze  fixed  inward  instead  of  upon 
one  another;  and  no  Divine  Power,  happening 
upon  the  curious  circumstance,  believed  the  matter 
one  for  His  intervention  nor  stooped  to  take  the 
respective  puppets  by  the  back  of  their  uncon- 
scious necks,  and  so  knock  their  sluggish  heads 
together. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
MARGARET  LOUISA'S  BIRTHRIGHT 

4  4  T  AM  sixteen  years  and  eight  months  old 
X  to-day,"  Eleanor  wrote,  "and  I  have  had 
the  kind  of  experience  that  makes  me  feel  as  if  I 
never  wanted  to  be  any  older.  I  know  life  is  full 
of  disillusionment  and  pain,  but  I  did  not  know 
that  any  one  with  whom  you  have  broken  bread, 
and  slept  in  the  same  room  with,  and  told  every- 
thing to  for  four  long  years,  could  turn  out  to  be 
an  absolute  traitor  and  villainess.  Let  me  begin 
at  the  beginning.  For  nearly  a  year  now  I  have 
noticed  that  Bertha  Stephens  avoided  me,  and 
presented  the  appearance  of  disliking  me.  I  don't 
like  to  have  any  one  dislike  me,  and  I  have  tried 
to  do  little  things  for  her  that  would  win  back 
her  affection,  but  with  no  success.  As  I  was 
editing  the  Lantern  I  could  print  her  essayettes 
(as  she  called  them)  and  do  her  lots  of  little 
favors  in  a  literary  way,  which  she  seemed  to  ap- 
preciate, but  personally  she  avoided  me  like  the 
plague. 

195 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"Of  course  Stevie  has  lots  of  faults,  and  since 
Margaret  Louise  and  I  always  talked  everything 
over  we  used  to  talk  about  Stevie  in  the  same 
way.  I  remember  that  she  used  to  try  to  draw 
me  out  about  Stevie's  character.  I've  always 
thought  Stevie  was  a  kind  of  piker,  that  is  that 
she  would  say  she  was  going  to  do  a  thing,  and 
then  from  sheer  laziness  not  do  it.  My  dictionary 
was  a  case  in  point.  She  gummed  it  all  up  with 
her  nasty  fudge  and  then  wouldn't  give  it  back 
to  me  or  get  me  another,  but  the  reason  she 
wouldn't  give  it  back  to  me  was  because  her  feel- 
ings were  too  fine  to  return  a  damaged  article, 
and  not  fine  enough  to  make  her  hump  herself  and 
get  me  another.  That's  only  one  kind  of  a  piker 
and  not  the  worst  kind,  but  it  was  pikerish. 

"All  this  I  told  quite  frankly  to  Maggie — I 
mean  Margaret  Louise,  because  I  had  no  secrets 
from  her  and  never  thought  there  was  any  reason 
why  I  shouldn't.  Stevie  has  a  horrid  brother, 
also,  who  has  been  up  here  to  dances.  All  the 
girls  hate  him  because  he  is  so  spoony.  He  isn't 
as  spoony  as  Margaret  Louise's  brother,  but  he's 
quite  a  sloppy  little  spooner  at  that.  Well,  I  told 
Margaret  Louise  that  I  didn't  like  Stevie's  brother, 

196 


MARGARET  LOUISA'S  BIRTHRIGHT 

and  then  I  made  the  damaging  remark  that  one 
reason  I  didn't  like  him  was  because  he  looked  so 
much  like  Stevie.  I  didn't  bother  to  explain  to 
Maggie — I  will  not  call  her  Maggie  Lou  any  more, 
because  that  is  a  dear  little  name  and  sounds  so 
affectionate, — Margaret  Louise — what  I  meant  by 
this,  because  I  thought  it  was  perfectly  evident. 
Stevie  is  a  peachy  looking  girl,  a  snow  white 
blonde  with  pinky  cheeks  and  dimples.  Well,  her 
brother  is  a  snow  white  blond  too,  and  he  has 
pinky  cheeks  and  dimples  and  his  name  is  Carlo! 
We,  of  course,  at  once  named  him  Curio.  It  is 
not  a  good  idea  for  a  man  to  look  too  much  like  his 
sister,  or  to  have  too  many  dimples  in  his  chin 
and  cheeks.  I  had  only  to  think  of  him  in  the 
same  room  with  my  three  uncles  to  get  his  num- 
ber exactly.  I  don't  mean  to  use  slang  in  my 
diary,  but  I  can't  seem  to  help  it.  Professor 
Mathews  says  that  slang  has  a  distinct  function 
in  the  language — in  replenishing  it,  but  Uncle 
Peter  says  about  slang  words,  that  'many  are 
called,  and  few  are  chosen,'  and  there  is  no  need 
to  try  to  accommodate  them  all  in  one's  vocab- 
ulary. 

"Well,  I  told  Margaret  Louise  all  these  things 

197 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

about  Curio,  and  how  he  tried  to  hold  my  hand 
coming  from  the  station  one  day,  when  the  girls 
all  went  up  to  meet  the  boys  that  came  up  for 
the  dance, — and  I  told  her  everything  else  in  the 
world  that  happened  to  come  into  my  head. 

"Then  one  day  I  got  thinking  about  leaving 
Harmon — this  is  our  senior  year,  of  course — 
and  I  thought  that  I  should  leave  all  the  girls 
with  things  just  about  right  between  us,  excepting 
good  old  Stevie,  who  had  this  queer  sort  of 
grouch  against  me.  So  I  decided  that  I'd  just  go 
around  and  have  it  out  with  her,  and  I  did.  I 
went  into  her  room  one  day  when  her  roommate 
was  out,  and  demanded  a  show  down.  Well,  I 
found  out  that  Maggie — Margaret  Louise  had  just 
repeated  to  Stevie  every  living  thing  that  I  ever 
said  about  her,  just  as  I  said  it,  only  without  the 
explanations  and  foot-notes  that  make  any  kind  of 
conversation  more  understandable. 

"Stevie  told  me  all  these  things  one  after  an- 
other, without  stopping,  and  when  she  was 
through  I  wished  that  the  floor  would  open  and 
swallow  me  up,  but  nothing  so  comfortable  hap- 
pened. I  was  obliged  to  gaze  into  Stevie's  over- 
flowing eyes  and  own  up  to  the  truth  as  well  as  I 

198 


MARGARET  LOUISA'S  BIRTHRIGHT 

could,  and  explain  it.  It  was  the  most  humiliating 
hour  that  I  ever  spent,  but  I  told  Stevie  exactly 
what  I  felt  about  her  'nothing  extenuate,  and 
naught  set  down  in  malice/  and  what  I  had  said 
about  her  to  our  mutual  friend,  who  by  the  way, 
is  not  the  mutual  friend  of  either  of  us  any 
longer.  We  were  both  crying  by  the  time  I  had 
finished,  but  we  understood  each  other.  There 
were  one  or  two  things  that  she  said  she  didn't 
think  she  would  ever  forget  that  I  had  said  about 
her,  but  even  those  she  could  forgive.  She  said 
that  my  dislike  of  her  had  rankled  in  her  heart 
so  long  that  it  took  away  all  the  bitterness  to 
know  that  I  wasn't  really  her  enemy.  She  said 
that  my  coming  to  her  that  way,  and  not  lying 
had  showed  that  I  had  lots  of  character,  and  she 
thought  in  time  that  we  could  be  quite  intimate 
friends  if  I  wanted  to  as  much  as  she  did. 

"After  my  talk  with  Stevie  I  still  hoped  against 
hope  that  Margaret  Louise  would  turn  out  to 
have  some  reason  or  excuse  for  what  she  had 
done.  I  knew  she  had  done  it,  but  when  a  thing 
like  that  happens  that  upsets  your  whole  trust  in 
a  person  you  simply  can  not  believe  the  evidence 
of  your  own  senses.  When  you  read  of  a  situa- 

199 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

tion  like  that  in  a  book  you  are  all  prepared  for 
it  by  the  author,  who  has  taken  the  trouble  to  ex- 
plain the  moral  weakness  or  unpleasantness  of  the 
character,  and  given  you  to  understand  that  you 
are  to  expect  a  betrayal  from  him  or  her;  but 
when  it  happens  in  real  life  out  of  a  clear  sky  you 
have  nothing  to  go  upon  that  makes  you  even 
believe  what  you  know. 

"I  won't  even  try  to  describe  the  scene  that  oc- 
curred between  Margaret  Louise  and  me.  She  cried 
and  she  lied,  and  she  accused  me  of  trying  to 
curry  favor  with  Stevie,  and  Stevie  of  being  a 
backbiter,  and  she  argued  and  argued  about  all 
kinds  of  things  but  the  truth,  and  when  I  tried 
to  pin  her  down  to  it,  she  ducked  and  crawled 
and  sidestepped  in  a  way  that  was  dreadful.  I've 
seen  her  do  something  like  it  before  about  differ- 
ent things,  and  I  ought  to  have  known  then  what 
she  was  like  inside  of  her  soul,  but  I  guess  you 
have  to  be  the  object  of  such  a  scene  before  you 
realize  the  full  force  of  it. 

"All  I  said  was,  'Margaret  Louise,  if  that's  all 
you've  got  to  say  about  the  injury  you  have  done 
me,  then  everything  is  over  between  us  from  this 
minute;'  and  it  was,  too. 

200 


MARGARET  LOUISA'S  BIRTHRIGHT 

"I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  writing  a  beautiful 
story  or  poem  on  what  I  thought  was  an  endur- 
ing tablet  of  marble,  and  some  one  had  come  and 
wiped  it  all  off  as  if  it  were  mere  scribblings  on 
a  slate.  I  don't  know  whether  it  would  seem 
like  telling  tales  to.  tell  Uncle  Peter  or  not;  I 
don't  quite  know  whether  I  want  to  tell  him. 
Sometimes  I  wish  I  had  a  mother  to  tell  such 
things  to.  It  seems  to  me  that  a  real  mother 
would  know  what  to  say  that  would  help  you. 
Disillusion  is  a  very  strange  thing — like  death, 
only  having  people  die  seems  more  natural  some- 
how. When  they  die  you  can  remember  the 
happy  hours  that  you  spent  with  them,  but  when 
disillusionment  comes  then  you  have  lost  even 
your  beautiful  memories. 

"We  had  for  the  subject  of  our  theme  this 
week,  'What  Life  Means  to  Me/  which  of  course 
was  the  object  of  many  facetious  remarks  from 
the  girls,  but  I've  been  thinking  that  if  I  sat 
down  seriously  to  state  in  just  so  many  words 
what  life  means  to  me,  I  hardly  know  what  I 
would  transcribe.  It  means  disillusionment  and 
death  for  one  thing.  Since  my  grandfather  died 
last  year  I  have  had  nobody  left  of  my  own  in 

201 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

the  world, — no  real  blood  relation.  Of  course,  I 
am  a  good  deal  fonder  of  my  aunts  and  uncles 
than  most  people  are  of  their  own  flesh  and  blood, 
but  own  flesh  and  blood  is  a  thing  that  it  makes 
you  feel  shivery  to  be  without.  If  I  had  been 
Margaret  Louise's  own  flesh  and  blood,  she  would 
never  have  acted  like  that  to  me.  Stevie  stuck 
up  for  Carlo  as  if  he  was  really  something  to  be 
proud  of.  Perhaps  my  uncles  and  aunts  feel  that 
way  about  me,  I  don't  know.  I  don't  even  know 
if  I  feel  that  way  about  them.  I  certainly  crit- 
icize them  in  my  soul  at  times,  and  feel  tired  of 
being  dragged  around  from  pillar  to  post.  I 
don't  feel  that  way  about  Uncle  Peter,  but  there 
is  nobody  else  that  I  am  certain,  positive  sure 
that  I  love  better  than  life  itself.  If  there  is 
only  one  in  the  world  that  you  feel  that  way 
about,  I  might  not  be  Uncle  Peter's  one. 

"Oh!  I  wish  Margaret  Louise  had  not  sold  her 
birthright  for  a  mess  of  pottage.  I  wish  I  had  a 
home  that  I  had  a  perfect  right  to  go  and  live  in 
forevermore.  I  wish  my  mother  was  here  to 
comfort  me  to-night." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  REAL  Kiss 

A  seventeen,  Eleanor  was  through  at  Har- 
mon. She  was  to  have  one  year  of  pre- 
paratory school  and  then  it  was  the  desire  of 
Beulah's  heart  that  she  should  go  to  Rogers.  The 
others  contended  that  the  higher  education  should 
be  optional  and  not  obligatory.  The  decision  was 
finally  to  be  left  to  Eleanor  herself,  after  she  had 
considered  it  in  all  its  bearings. 

"If  she  doesn't  decide  in  favor  of  college,"  David 
said,  "and  she  makes  her  home  with  me  here, 
as  I  hope  she  will  do,  of  course,  I  don't  see  what 
society  we  are  going  to  be  able  to  give  her.  Un- 
fortunately none  of  our  contemporaries  have 
growing  daughters.  She  ought  to  meet  eligible 
young  men  and  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Not  yet,"  Margaret  cried.  The  two  were  hav- 
ing a  cozy  cup  of  tea  at  his  apartment.  "You're 
so  terribly  worldly,  David,  that  you  frighten  me 
sometimes." 

"You  don't  know  where  I  will  end,  is  that  the 
idea?" 

203 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"I  don't  know  where  Eleanor  will  end,  if  you're 
already  thinking  of  eligible  young  men  for  her." 

"Those  things  have  got  to  be  thought  of," 
David  answered  gravely. 

"I  suppose  they  have,"  Margaret  sighed.  "I 
don't  want  her  to  be  married.  I  want  to  take 
her  off  by  myself  and  growl  over  her  all  alone 
for  a  while.  Then  I  want  Prince  Charming  to 
come  along  and  snatch  her  up  quickly,  and  set 
her  behind  his  milk  white  charger  and  ride  away 
with  her.  If  we've  all  got  to  get  together  and 
connive  at  marrying  her  off  there  won't  be  any 
comfort  in  having  her." 

"I  don't  know,"  David  said  thoughtfully;  "I 
think  that  might  be  fun,  too.  A  vicarious  love- 
affair  that  you  can  manipulate  is  one  of  the  most 
interesting  games  in  the  world." 

"That's  not  my  idea  of  an  interesting  game," 
Margaret  said.  "I  like  things  very  personal, 
David, — you  ought  to  know  that  by  this  time." 

"I  do  know  that,"  David  said,  "but  it  some- 
times occurs  to  me  that  except  for  a  few  obvious 
facts  of  that  nature  I  really  know  very  little  about 
you,  Margaret." 

204 


A  REAL  KISS 

"There  isn't  much  to  know — except  that  I'm  a 
woman." 

"That's  a  good  deal,"  David  answered  slowly; 
"to  a  mere  man  that  seems  to  be  considerable  of 
an  adventure." 

"It  is  about  /  as  much  of  an  adventure  some- 
limes  as  it  would  be  to  be  a  field  of  clover  in  an 
insectless  world. — This  is  wonderful  tea,  David, 
but  your  cream  is  like  butter  and  floats  around  in 
it  in  wudges.  No,  don't  get  any  more,  I've  got 
to  go  home.  Grandmother  still  thinks  it's  very 
improper  for  me  to  call  upon  you,  in  spite  of 
Mademoiselle  and  your  ancient  and  honorable 
housekeeper." 

"Don't  go,"  David  said;  "I  apologize  on  my 
knees  for  the  cream.  I'll  send  out  and  have  it 
wet  down,  or  whatever  you  do  to  cream  in  that 
state.  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  What  did  you  mean 
by  your  last  remark?" 

"About  the  cream,  or  the  proprieties?" 

"About  women." 

"Everything  and  nothing,  David  dear.  I'm  a 
little  bit  tired  of  being  one,  that's  all,  and  I  want 
to  go  home." 

205 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"She  wants  to  go  home  when  she's  being  so 
truly  delightful  and  cryptic,"  David  said.  "Have 
you  been  seeing  visions,  Margaret,  in  my  hearth 
fire?  Your  eyes  look  as  if  you  had." 

"I  thought  I  did  for  a  minute."  She  rose  and 
stood  absently  fitting  her  gloves  to  her  fingers.  "I 
don't  know  exactly  what  it  was  I  saw,  but  it  was 
something  that  made  me  uncomfortable.  It  gives 
me  the  creeps  to  talk  about  being  a  woman. 
David,  do  you  know  sometimes  I  have  a  kind  of 
queer  hunch  about  Eleanor?  I  love  her,  you  know, 
dearly,  dearly.  I  think  that  she  is  a  very  success- 
ful kind  of  Frankenstein;  but  there  are  moments 
when  I  have  the  feeling  that  she's  going  to  be  a 
storm  center  and  bring  some  queer  trouble  upon 
us.  I  wouldn't  say  this  to  anybody  but  you, 
David." 

As  David  tucked  her  in  the  car — he  had  arrived 
at  the  dignity  of  owning  one  now — and  watched 
her  sweet  silhouette  disappear,  he,  too,  had  his 
moment  of  clairvoyance.  He  felt  that  he  was 
letting  something  very  precious  slip  out  of  sight, 
as  if  some  radiant  and  delicate  gift  had  been  laid 
lightly  within  his  grasp  and  as  lightly  withdrawn 
again.  As  if  when  the  door  closed  on  his  friend 

206 


A  REAL  KISS 

Margaret  some  stranger,  more  silent  creature  who 
was  dear  to  him  had  gone  with  her.  As  soon  as 
he  was  dressed  for  dinner  he  called  Margaret  on 
the  telephone  to  know  if  she  had  arrived  home 
safely,  and  was  informed  not  only  that  she  had, 
but  that  she  was  very  wroth  at  him  for  getting 
her  down  three  flights  of  stairs  in  the  midst  of 
her  own  dinner  toilet. 

"I  had  a  kind  of  hunch,  too,"  he  told  her,  "and 
I  felt  as  if  I  wanted  to  hear  your  voice  speaking." 

But  she  only  scoffed  at  him. 

"If  that's  the  way  you  feel  about  your  chauf- 
feur," she  said,  "you  ought  to  discharge  him,  but 
he  brought  me  home  beautifully." 

The  difference  between  a  man's  moments  of 
prescience  and  a  woman's,  is  that  the  man  puts 
them  out  of  his  consciousness  as  quickly  as  he 
can,  while  a  woman  clings  to  them  fearfully  and 
goes  her  way  a  little  more  carefully  for  the  mo- 
mentary flash  of  foresight.  David  tried  to  see 
Margaret  once  or  twice  during  that  week  but  failed 
to  find  her  in  when  he  called  or  telephoned,  and 
the  special  impulse  to  seek  her  alone  again  died 
naturally. 

One  Saturday  a  few  weeks  later  Eleanor  tele- 

207 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

graphed  him  that  she  wished  to  come  to  New  York 
for  the  week-end  to  do  some  shopping. 

He  went  to  the  train  to  meet  her,  and  when 
the  slender  chic  figure  in  the  most  correct  of  tailor 
made  suits  appeared  at  the  gateway,  with  an  obse- 
quious porter  bearing  her  smart  bag  and  ulster,  he 
gave  a  sudden  gasp  of  surprise  at  the  picture.  He 
had  been  aware  for  some  time  of  the  increase  in 
her  inches  and  the  charm  of  the  pure  cameo-cut 
profile,  but  he  regarded  her  still  as  a  child  histri- 
onically assuming  the  airs  and  graces  of  woman- 
hood, as  small  girl  children  masquerade  in  the 
trailing  skirts  of  their  elders.  He  was  accustomed 
to  the  idea  that  she  was  growing  up  rapidly,  but 
the  fact  that  she  was  already  grown  had  never 
actually  dawned  on  him  until  this  moment. 

"You  look  as  if  you  were  surprised  to  see  me, 
Uncle  David, — are  you?"  she  said,  slipping  a  slim 
hand,  warm  through  it£  immaculate  glove,  into 
his.  "You  knew  I  was  coming,  and  you  came  to 
meet  me,  and  yet  you  looked  as  surprised  as  if  you 
hadn't  expected  me  at  all." 

"Surprised  to  see  you  just  about  expresses  it, 
Eleanor,  I  am  surprised  to  see  you.  I  was  look- 

208 


A  REAL  KISS 

ing  for  a  little  girl  in  hair  ribbons  with  her  skirts 
to  her  knees." 

"And  a  blue  tam-o'-shanter?" 

"And  a  blue  tam-o'-shanter.  I  had  forgotten 
you  had  grown  up  any  to  speak  of." 

"You  see  me  every  vacation,"  Eleanor  grumbled, 
as  she  stepped  into  the  waiting  motor.  "It  isn't 
because  you  lack  opportunity  that  you  don't  notice 
what  I  look  like.  It's  just  because  you're  nat- 
urally unobserving." 

"Peter  and  Jimmie  have  been  making  a  good 
deal  of  fuss  about  your  being  a  young  lady,  now 
I  think  of  it.  Peter  especially  has  been  rather  a 
nuisance  about  it,  breaking  into  my  most  precious 
moments  of  triviality  with  the  sweetly  solemn 
thought  that  our  little  girl  has  grown  to  be  a 
woman  now." 

"Oh,  does  he  think  I'm  grown  up,  does  he 
really?" 

"Jimmie  is  almost  as  bad.  He's  all  the  time 
wanting  me  to  get  you  to  New  York  over  the  week- 
end, so  that  he  can  see  if  you  are  any  taller  than 
you  were  the  last  time  he  saw  you." 

"Are  they  coming  to  see  me  this  evening?" 

209 


JURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"Jimmie  is  going  to  look  in.  Peter  is  tied  up 
with  his  sister.  You  know  she's  on  here  from 
China  with  her  daughter.  Peter  wants  you  to  meet 
the  child." 

"She  must  be  as  grown  up  as  I  am,"  Eleanor 
said.  "I  used  to  have  her  room,  you  know,  when 
I  stayed  with  Uncle  Peter.  Does  Uncle  Peter  like 
her?" 

"Not  as  much  as  he  likes  you,  Miss  Green-eyes. 
He  says  she  looks  like  a  heathen  Chinee  but  other- 
wise is  passable.  I  didn't  know  that  you  added 
jealousy  to  the  list  of  your  estimable  vices." 

"I'm  not  jealous,"  Eleanor  protested;  "or  if  I 
am  it's  only  because  she's  blood  relation, — and  I'm 
not,  you  know." 

"It's  a  good  deal  more  prosaic  to  be  a  blood 
relation,  if  anybody  should  ask  you,"  David  smiled. 
"A  blood  relation  is  a  good  deal  like  the  famous 
primrose  on  the  river's  brim." 

"  'A  primrose  by  the  river's  brim  a  yellow  prim- 
rose was  to  him, — and  nothing  more,'  "  Eleanor 
quoted  gaily.  "Why,  what  more — "  she  broke  off 
suddenly  and  colored  slightly. 

"What  more  would  anybody  want  to  be  than  a 
yellow  primrose  by  the  river's  brim?"  David  fin- 

210 


A  REAL  KISS 

ished  for  her.  "I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  I'm  a 
mere  man  and  such  questions  are  too  abstruse  for 
me,  as  I  told  your  Aunt  Margaret  the  other  day. 
Now  I  think  of  it,  though,  you  don't  look  unlike 
a  yellow  primrose  yourself  to-day,  daughter." 

"That's  because  I've  got  a  yellow  ribbon  on  my 
hat." 

"No,  the  resemblance  goes  much  deeper.  It  has 
something  to  do  with  youth  and  fragrance  and  the 
flowers  that  bloom  in  the  spring." 

"The  flowers  that  bloom  in  the  spring,  tra  la," 
Eleanor  returned  saucily,  "have  nothing  to  do  with 
the  case." 

"She's  learning  that  she  has  eyes,  good  Lord," 
David  said  to  himself,  but  aloud  he  remarked 
paternally,  "I  saw  all  your  aunts  yesterday.  Ger- 
trude gave  a  tea  party  and  invited  a  great  many 
famous  tea  party  types,  and  ourselves." 

"Was  Aunt  Beulah  there?" 

"I  said  all  your  aunts.  Beulah  was  there,  like 
the  famous  Queenie,  with  her  hair  in  a  braid." 

"Not  really." 

"Pretty  nearly.  She's  gone  in  for  dress  reform 
now,  you  know,  a  kind  of  middy  blouse  made  out 
of  a  striped  portiere  with  a  kilted  skirt  of  the  same 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

material  and  a  Scotch  cap.  She  doesn't  look  so 
bad  in  it.  Your  Aunt  Beulah  presents  a  peculiar 
phenomenon  these  days.  She's  growing  better- 
looking  and  behaving  worse  every  day  of  her  life." 

"Behaving  worse?" 

"She's  theory  ridden  and  fad  bitten.  She'll 
come  to  a  bad  end  if  something  doesn't  stop  her." 

"Do  you  mean — stop  her  working  for  suffrage? 
I'm  a  suffragist,  Uncle  David." 

"And  quite  right  to  remind  me  of  it  before  I 
began  slamming  the  cause.  No,  I  don't  mean 
suffrage.  I  believe  in  suffrage  myself.  I  mean  the 
way  she's  going  after  it.  There  are  healthy  ways 
of  insisting  on  your  rights  and  unhealthy  ways. 
Beulah's  getting  further  and  further  off  key,  that's 
all.  Here  we  are  at  home,  daughter.  Your  poor 
old  cooperative  father  welcomes  you  to  the  asso- 
ciated hearthstone." 

"This  front  entrance  looks  more  like  my  front 
entrance  than  any  other  place  does,"  Eleanor  said. 
"Oh!  I'm  so  glad  to  be  here.  George,  how  is  the 
baby?"  she  asked  the  black  elevator  man,  who 
beamed  delightedly  upon  her. 

"Gosh!  I  didn't  know  he  had  one,"  David 
chuckled.  "It  takes  a  woman — " 


212 


A  REAL  KISS 

Jimmie  appeared  in  the  evening,  laden  with  vio- 
lets and  a  five  pound  box  of  the  chocolates  most 
in  favor  in  the  politest  circles  at  the  moment. 
David  whistled  when  he  saw  them. 

"What's  devouring  you,  papa?"  Jimmie  asked 
him.  "Don't  I  always  place  tributes  at  the  feet  of 
the  offspring?" 

"Mirror  candy  and  street  corner  violets,  yes," 
David  said.  "It's  only  the  labels  that  surprised 
me." 

"She  knows  the  difference,  now,"  Jimmie  an- 
swered, "what  would  you?" 

The  night  before  her  return  to  school  it  was 
decreed  that  she  should  go  to  bed  early.  She  had 
spent  two  busy  days  of  shopping  and  "seeing  the 
family."  She  had  her  hours  discussing  her  future 
with  Peter,  long  visits  and  talks  with  Margaret 
and  Gertrude,  and  a  cup  of  tea  at  suffrage  head- 
quarters with  Beulah,  as  well  as  long  sessions  in 
the  shops  accompanied  by  Mademoiselle,  who  made 
her  home  now  permanently  with  David.  She  sat 
before  the  fire  drowsily  constructing  pyramids  out 
of  the  embers  and  David  stood  with  one  arm  on 
the  mantel,  smoking  his  after-dinner  cigar,  and 
watching  her. 

213 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"Is  it  to  be  college,  Eleanor?"  he  asked  her 
presently. 

"I  can't  seem  to  make  up  my  mind,  Uncle 
David." 

"Don't  you  like  the  idea?" 

"Yes,  I'd  love  it,— if— " 

"If  what,  daughter?" 

"If  I  thought  I  could  spare  the  time." 

"The  time?     Elucidate." 

"I'm  going  to  earn  my  own  living,  you  know." 

"I  didn't  know." 

"I  am.  I've  got  to — in  order  to — to  feel  right 
about  things." 

"Don't  you  like  the  style  of  living  to  which  your 
cooperative  parents  have  accustomed  you?" 

"I  love  everything  you've  ever  done  for  me, 
but  I  can't  go  on  letting  you  do  things  for  me 
forever." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  don't  know  why  not  exactly.  It  doesn't 
seem — right,  that's  all." 

"It's  your  New  England  conscience,  Eleanor; 
one  of  the  most  specious  varieties  of  consciences 
in  the  world.  It  will  always  be  tempting  you  to 

214 


A  REAL  KISS 

do  good  that  better  may  come.  Don't  listen  to  it, 
daughter." 

"I'm  in  earnest,  Uncle  David.  I  don't  know 
whether  I  would  be  better  fitted  to  earn  my  living 
if  I  went  to  business  college  or  real  college.  What 
do  you  think?" 

"I  can't  think,— I'm  stupefied." 

"Uncle  Peter  couldn't  think,  either." 

"Have  you  mentioned  this  brilliant  idea  to 
Peter?" 

"Yes." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  talked  it  over  with  me,  but  I  think  he  thinks 
I'll  change  my  mind." 

"I  think  you'll  change  your  mind.  Good  heav- 
ens! Eleanor,  we're  all  able  to  afford  you — the 
little  we  spend  on  you  is  nothing  divided  among 
six  of  us.  It's  our  pleasure  and  privilege.  When 
did  you  come  to  this  extraordinary  decision?" 

"A  long  time  ago.  The  day  that  Mrs.  Boiling 
talked  to  me,  I  think.  There  are  things  she  said 
that  I've  never  forgotten.  I  told  Uncle  Peter  to 
think  about  it  and  then  help  me  to  decide  which  to 
do,  and  I  want  you  to  think,  Uncle  David,  and  tell 

215 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

me  truly  what  you  believe  the  best  preparation  for 
a  business  life  would  be.  I  thought  perhaps  I 
might  be  a  stenographer  in  an  editorial  office,  and 
my  training  there  would  be  more  use  to  me  than 
four  years  at  college,  but  I  don't  know." 

"You're  an  extraordinary  young  woman,"  David 
said,  staring  at  her.  "I'm  glad  you  broached  this 
subject,  if  only  that  I  might  realize  how  extraor- 
dinary, but  I  don't  think  anything  will  come  of  it, 
my  dear.  I  don't  want  you  to  go  to  college  unless 
you  really  want  to,  but  if  you  do  want  to,  I  hope 
you  will  take  up  the  pursuit  of  learning  as  a  pur- 
suit and  not  as  a  means  to  an  end.  Do  you  hear 
me,  daughter?" 

"Yes,  Uncle  David." 

"Then  let's  have  no  more  of  this  nonsense  of 
earning  your  own  living." 

"Are  you  really  displeased,  Uncle  David?" 

"I  should  be  if  I  thought  you  were  serious, — but 
it's  bedtime.  If  you're  going  to  get  your  beauty 
sleep,  my  dear,  you  ought  to  begin  on  it  immedi- 
ately." 

Eleanor  rose  obediently,  her  brow  clouded  a 
little,  and  her  head  held  high.  David  watched  the 
color  coming  and  going  in  the  sweet  face  and  the 

216 


A  REAL  KISS 

tender  breast  rising  and  falling  with  her  quicken- 
ing breath. 

"I  thought  perhaps  you  would  understand,"  she 
said.  "Good  night." 

She  had  always  kissed  him  "good  night"  until 
this  visit,  and  he  had  refrained  from  commenting 
on  the  omission  before,  but  now  he  put  out  his 
hand  to  her. 

"Haven't  you  forgotten  something?"  he  asked. 
"There  is  only  one  way  for  a  daughter  to  say 
good  night  to  her  parent." 

She  put  up  her  face,  and  as  she  did  so  he  caught 
the  glint  of  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Why,  Eleanor,  dear,"  he  said,  "did  you  care?" 
And  he  kissed  her.  Then  his  lips  sought  hers  again. 

With  his  arms  still  about  her  shoulder  he  stood 
looking  down  at  her.  A  hot  tide  of  crimson  made 
its  way  slowly  to  her  brow  and  then  receded, 
accentuating  the  clear  pallor  of  her  face. 

"That  was  a  real  kiss,  dear,"  he  said  slowly. 
"We  mustn't  get  such  things  confused.  I  won't 
bother  you  with  talking  about  it  to-night,  or  until 
you  are  ready.  Until  then  we'll  pretend  that  it 
didn't  happen,  but  if  the  thought  of  it  should  ever 
disturb  you  the  least  bit,  dear,  you  are  to  remember 

217 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

that  the  time  is  coming  when  I  shall  have  something 
to  say  about  it;  will  you  remember?" 

"Yes,  Uncle  David,"  Eleanor  said  uncertainly, 
"but  I— I—" 

David  took  her  unceremoniously  by  the  shoulders. 

"Go  now,"  he  said,  and  she  obeyed  him  without 
further  question. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
BEULAH'S  PROBLEM 

PETER  was  shaving  for  the  evening.  His 
sister  was  giving  a  dinner  party  for  two  of 
her  husband's  fellow  bankers  and  their  wives. 
After  that  they  were  going  to  see  the  latest  Belasco 
production,  and  from  there  to  some  one  of  the  new 
dancing  "clubs," — the  smart  cabarets  that  were 
forced  to  organize  in  the  guise  of  private  enter- 
prises to  evade  the  two  o'clock  closing  law.  Peter 
enjoyed  dancing,  but  he  did  not  as  a  usual  thing 
enjoy  bankers'  wives.  He  was  deliberating  on  the 
possibility  of  excusing  himself  gracefully  after  the 
theater,  on  the  plea  of  having  some  work  to  do,  and 
finally  decided  that  his  sister's  feelings  would  be 
hurt  if  she  realized  he  was  trying  to  escape  the 
climax  of  the  hospitality  she  had  provided  so 
carefully. 

He  gazed  at  himself  intently  over  the  drifts  of 
lather  and  twisted  his  shaving  mirror  to  the  most 
propitious  angle  from  time  to  time.  In  the  room 
across  the  hall — Eleanor's  room,  he  always  called 

219 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

it  to  himself — his  young  niece  was  singing  bits  of 
the  Mascagni  intermezzo  interspersed  with  bits  of 
the  latest  musical  comedy,  in  a  rather  uncertain 
contralto. 

"My  last  girl  came  from  Vassar,  and  I  don't 
know  where  to  class  her." 

Peter's  mind  took  up  the  refrain  automatically. 
"My  last  girl — "  and  began  at  the  beginning  of  the 
chorus  again.  "My  last  girl  came  from  Vassar," 
which  brought  him  by  natural  stages  to  the  consid- 
eration of  the  higher  education  and  of  Beulah,  and 
a  conversation  concerning  her  that  he  had  had 
with  Jimmie  and  David  the  night  before. 

"She's  off  her  nut,"  Jimmie  said  succinctly.  "It's 
not  exactly  that  there's  nobody  home,"  he  rapped 
his  curly  pate  significantly,  "but  there's  too  much 
of  a  crowd  there.  She's  not  the  same  old  girl  at 
all.  She  used  to  be  a  good  fellow,  high-brow 
propaganda  and  all.  Now  she's  got  nothing  else 
in  her  head.  What's  happened  to  her?" 

"It's  what  hasn't  happened  to  her  that's  addled 
her,"  David  explained.  "It's  these  highly  charged, 
hypersensitive  young  women  that  go  to  pieces 
under  the  modern  pressure.  They're  the  ones  that 
need  licking  into  shape  by  all  the  natural  processes." 

220 


BEULAH'S   PROBLEM 

"By  which  you  mean  a  drunken  husband  and  a 
howling  family?"  Jimmie  suggested. 

"Yes,  or  its  polite  equivalent." 

"That  is  true,  isn't  it?"  Peter  said.  "Feminism 
isn't  the  answer  to  Beulah's  problem." 

"It  is  the  problem,"  David  said;  "she's  poisoning 
herself  with  it.  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about. 
I've  seen  it  happen.  My  cousin  Jack  married  a  girl 
with  a  sister  a  great  deal  like  Beulah,  looks,  tem- 
perament, and  everything  else,  though  she  wasn't 
half  so  nice.  She  got  going  the  militant  pace  and 
couldn't  stop  herself.  I  never  met  her  at  a  dinner 
party  that  she  wasn't  tackling  somebody  on  the 
subject  of  man's  inhumanity  to  woman.  She  ended 
in  a  sanitorium;  in  fact,  they're  thinking  now  of 
taking  her  to  the — " 

" — bug  house,"  Jimmie  finished  cheerfully. 

"And  in  the  beginning  she  was  a  perfectly  good 
girl  that  needed  nothing  in  the  world  but  a  chance 
to  develop  along  legitimate  lines." 

"The  frustrate  matron,  eh?"  Peter  said. 

"The  frustrate  matron,"  David  agreed  gravely. 
"I  wonder  you  haven't  realized  this  yourself,  Gram. 
You're  keener  about  such  things  than  I  am.  Beu- 
lah is  more  your  job  than  mine." 

221 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"Is  she?" 

"You're  the  only  one  she  listens  to  or  looks  up 
to.  Go  up  and  tackle  her  some  day  and  see  what 
you  can  do.  She's  sinking  fast." 

"Give  her  the  once  over  and  throw  out  the  life- 
line," Jimmie  said. 

"I  thought  all  this  stuff  was  a  phase,  a  part  of 
her  taking  herself  seriously  as  she  always  has.  I 
had  no  idea  it  was  anything  to  worry  about,"  Peter 
persisted.  "Are  you  sure  she's  in  bad  shape — that 
she's  got  anything  more  than  a  bad  attack  of  Fem- 
inism of  the  Species  in  its  most  virulent  form? 
They  come  out  of  that,  you  know." 

"She's  batty,"  Jimmie  nodded  gravely.  "Dave's 
got  the  right  dope." 

"Go  up  and  look  her  over,"  David  persisted; 
"you'll  see  what  we  mean,  then.  Beulah's  in  a 
bad  way." 

Peter  reviewed  this  conversation  while  he  shaved 
the  right  side  of  his  face,  and  frowned  prodig- 
iously through  the  lather.  He  wished  that  he  had 
an  engagement  that  evening  that  he  could  break 
in  order  to  get  to  see  Beulah  at  once,  and  discover 
for  himself  the  harm  that  had  come  to  his  friend. 
He  was  devoted  to  Beulah.  He  had  always  felt 

222 


BEULAH'S   PROBLEM 

that  he  saw  a  little  more  clearly  than  the  others 
the  virtue  that  was  in  the  girl.  He  admired  the 
pluck  with  which  she  made  her  attack  on  life  and 
the  energy  with  which  she  accomplished  her  ends. 
There  was  to  him  something  alluring  and  quaint 
about  her  earnestness.  The  fact  that  her  soundness 
could  be  questioned  came  to  him  with  something 
like  a  shock.  As  soon  as  he  was  dressed  he  was 
called  to  the  telephone  to  talk  to  David. 

"Margaret  has  just  told  me  that  Doctor  Penrose 
has  been  up  to  see  Beulah  and  pronounces  it  a 
case  of  nervous  breakdown.  He  wants  her  to  try 
out  psycho-analysis,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  He 
seems  to  feel  that  it's  serious.  Margaret  is  fear- 
fully upset,  poor  girl.  So'm  I,  to  tell  the  truth." 

"And  so  am  I,"  Peter  acknowledged  to  himself 
as  he  hung  up  the  receiver.  He  was  so  absorbed 
during  the  evening  that  one  of  the  ladies — the  wife 
of  the  fat  banker — found  him  extremely  dull  and 
decided  against  asking  him  to  dinner  with  his  sis- 
ter. The  wife  of  the  thin  banker,  who  was  in  his 
charge  at  the  theater,  got  the  benefit  of  his  effort 
to  rouse  himself  and  grace  the  occasion  creditably, 
and  found  him  delightful.  By  the  time  the  evening 
was  over  he  had  decided  that  Beulah  should  be 


223 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

pulled  out  of  whatever  dim  world  of  dismay  and 
delusion  she  might  be  wandering  in,  at  whatever 
cost.  It  was  unthinkable  that  she  should  be  wasted, 
or  that  her  youth  and  splendid  vitality  should  go 
for  naught. 

He  found  her  eager  to  talk  to  him  the  next 
night  when  he  went  to  see  her. 

"Peter,"  she  said,  "I  want  you  to  go  to  my  aunt 
and  my  mother,  and  tell  them  that  I've  got  to  go 
on  with  my  work, — that  I  can't  be  stopped  and 
interrupted  by  this  foolishness  of  doctors  and 
nurses.  I  never  felt  better  in  my  life,  except  for 
not  being  able  to  sleep,  and  I  think  that  is  due  to 
the  way  they  have  worried  me.  I  live  in  a  world 
they  don't  know  anything  about,  that's  all.  Even 
if  they  were  right,  if  I  am  wearing  myself  out  soul 
and  body  for  the  sake  of  the  cause,  what  business 
is  it  of  theirs  to  interfere?  I'm  working  for  the 
souls  and  bodies  of  women  for  ages  to  come. 
What  difference  does  it  make  if  my  soul  and  body 
suffer?  Why  shouldn't  they?"  Her  eyes  nar- 
rowed. Peter  observed  the  unnatural  light  in 
them,  the  apparent  dryness  of  her  lips,  the  two 
bright  spots  burning  below  her  cheek-bones. 

"Because,"   he   answered   her   slowly,    "I   don't 

224 


BEULAH'S   PROBLEM 

think  it  was  the  original  intention  of  Him  who  put 
us  here  that  we  should  sacrifice  everything  we  are  to 
the  business  of  emphasizing  the  superiority  of  a  sex." 

"That  isn't  the  point  at  all,  Peter.  No  man 
understands,  no  man  can  understand.  It's  woman's 
equality  we  want  emphasized,  just  literally  that 
and  nothing  more.  You've  pauperized  and  de- 
graded us  long  enough — " 

"Thou  canst  not  say  I — "  Peter  began. 

"Yes,  you  and  every  other  man,  every  man  in 
the  world  is  a  party  to  it." 

"I  had  to  get  her  going,"  Peter  apologized  to 
himself,  "in  order  to  get  a  point  of  departure. 
Not  if  I  vote  for  women,  Beulah,  dear,"  he 
added  aloud. 

"If  you  throw  your  influence  with  us  instead  of 
against  us,"  she  conceded,  "you're  helping  to  right 
the  wrong  that  you  have  permitted  for  so  long." 

"Well,  granting  your  premise,  granting  all  your 
premises,  Beulah — and  I  admit  that  most  of  them 
have  sound  reasoning  behind  them — your  battle 
now  is  all  over  but  the  shouting.  There's  no  reason 
that  you  personally  should  sacrifice  your  last  drop 
of  energy  to  a  campaign  that's  practically  won 
already." 

225 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"If  you  think  the  mere  franchise  is  all  I  have 
been  working  for,  Peter, — " 

"I  don't.  I  know  the  thousand  and  one  activi- 
ties you  women  are  concerned  with.  I  know  how 
much  better  church  and  state  always  have  been 
and  are  bound  to  be,  when  the  women  get  behind 
and  push,  if  they  throw  their  strength  right." 

Beulah  rose  enthusiastically  to  this  bait  and 
talked  rationally  and  well  for  some  time.  Just  as 
Peter  was  beginning  to  feel  that  David  and  Jim- 
mie  had  been  guilty  of  the  most  unsympathetic 
exaggeration  of  her  state  of  mind — unquestion- 
ably she  was  not  as  fit  physically  as  usual — she 
startled  him  with  an  abrupt  change  into  almost 
hysterical  incoherence. 

"I  have  a  right  to  live  my  own  life,"  she  con- 
cluded, "and  nobody — nobody  shall  stop  me." 

"We  are  all  living  our  own  lives,  aren't  we?" 
Peter  asked  mildly. 

"No  woman  lives  her  own  life  to-day,"  Beulah 
cried,  still  excitedly.  "Every  woman  is  living  the 
life  of  some  man,  who  has  the  legal  right  to  treat 
her  as  an  imbecile." 

"Hold  on,  Beulah.  How  about  the  suffrage 
states,  how  about  the  women  who  are  already  in 

226 


BEULAH'S   PROBLEM 

the  proud  possession  of  their  rights  and  privileges? 
They  are  not  technical  imbeciles  any  longer  accord- 
ing to  your  theory.  The  vote's  coming.  Every 
woman  will  be  a  super-woman  in  two  shakes, — so 
what's  devouring  you,  as  Jimmie  says?" 

"It's  after  all  the  states  have  suffrage  that  the 
big  fight  will  really  begin,"  Beulah  answered 
wearily.  "It's  the  habit  of  wearing  the  yoke  we'll 
have  to  fight  then." 

"The  anti-feminists,"  Peter  said,  "I  see.  Beu- 
lah, can't  you  give  yourself  any  rest,  or  is  the 
nature  of  the  cause  actually  suicidal?" 

To  his  surprise  her  tense  face  quivered  at  this 
and  she  tried  to  steady  a  tremulous  lower  lip. 

"I  am  tired,"  she  said,  a  little  piteously,  "dread- 
fully tired,  but  nobody  cares." 

"Is  that  fair?" 

"It's  true." 

"Your  friends  care." 

"They  only  want  to  stop  me  doing  something 
they  have  no  sympathy  with.  What  do  Gertrude 
and  Margaret  know  of  the  real  purpose  of  my  life 
or  my  failure  or  success?  They  take  a  sentimental 
interest  in  my  health,  that's  all.  Do  you  suppose 
it  made  any  difference  to  Jeanne  d'Arc  how  many 

227 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

people  took  a  sympathetic  interest  in  her  health  if 
they  didn't  believe  in  what  she  believed  in?" 

"There's  something  in  that." 

"I  thought  Eleanor  would  grow  up  to  take  an 
interest  in  the  position  of  women,  and  to  care  about 
the  things  I  cared  about,  but  she's  not  going  to." 

"She's  very  fond  of  you." 

"Not  as  fond  as  she  is  of  Margaret." 

Peter  longed  to  dispute  this,  but  he  could  not  in 
honesty. 

"She's  a  suffragist." 

"She's  so  lukewarm  she  might  just  as  well  be 
an  anti.  She's  naturally  reactionary.  Women 
like  that  aren't  much  use.  They  drag  us  back  like 
so  much  dead  weight." 

"I  suppose  Eleanor  has  been  a  disappointment 
to  you,"  Peter  mused,  "but  she  tries  pretty  hard 
to  be  all  things  to  all  parents,  Beulah.  You'll  find 
she  won't  fail  you  if  you  need  her." 

'"I  shan't  need  her,"  Beulah  said,  prophetically. 
"I  hoped  she'd  stand  beside  me  in  the  work,  but 
she's  not  that  kind.  She'll  marry  early  and  have 
a  family,  and  that  will  be  the  end  of  her." 

"I  wonder  if  she  will,"  Peter  said,  "I  hope  so. 

228 


BEULAH'S   PROBLEM 

She  still  seems  such  a  child  to  me.  I  believe  in 
marriage,  Beulah,  don't  you?" 

Her  answer  surprised  him. 

"Under  certain  conditions,  I  do.  I  made  a  vow 
once  that  I  would  never  marry  and  I've  always 
believed  that  it  would  be  hampering  and  limiting 
to  a  woman,  but  now  I  see  that  the  fight  has  got 
to  go  on.  If  there  are  going  to  be  women  to  carry 
on  the  fight  they  will  have  to  be  born  of  the  women 
who  are  fighting  to-day." 

"Thank  God,"  Peter  said  devoutly.  "It  doesn't 
make  any  difference  why  you  believe  it,  if  you  do 
believe  it." 

"It  makes  all  the  difference,"  Beulah  said,  but 
her  voice  softened.  "What  I  believe  is  more  to 
me  than  anything  else  in  the  world,  Peter." 

"That's  all  right,  too.  I  understand  your  point 
of  view,  Beulah.  You  carry  it  a  little  bit  too  far, 
that's  all  that's  wrong  with  it  from  my  way  of 
thinking." 

"Will  you  help  me  to  go  on,  Peter?" 

"How?" 

"Talk  to  my  aunt  and  my  mother.  Tell  them 
that  they're  all  wrong  in  their  treatment  of  me." 

229 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"I  think  I  could  undertake  to  do  that" — Peter 
was  convinced  that  a  less  antagonistic  attitude  on 
the  part  of  her  relatives  would  be  more  success- 
ful—"and  I  will." 

Beulah's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"You're  the  only  one  who  comes  anywhere  near 
knowing,"  she  said,  "or  who  ever  will,  I  guess*  I 
try  so  hard,  Peter,  and  now  when  I  don't  seem  to 
be  accomplishing  as  much  as  I  want  to,  as  much 
as  it's  necessary  for  me  to  accomplish  if  I  am  to 
go  on  respecting  myself,  every  one  enters  into  a 
conspiracy  to  stop  my  doing  anything  at  all.  The 
only  thing  that  makes  me  nervous  is  the  way  I  am 
thwarted  and  opposed  at  every  turn.  I  haven't  got 
nervous  prostration." 

"Perhaps  not,  but  you  have  something  remark- 
ably like  idee  fixe"  Peter  said  to  himself  com- 
passionately. 

He  found  her  actual  condition  less  dangerous 
but  much  more  difficult  than  he  had  anticipated. 
She  was  living  wrong,  that  was  the  sum  and  sub- 
stance of  her  malady.  Her  life  was  spent  con- 
fronting theories  and  discounting  conditions.  She 
did  not  realize  that  it  is  only  the  interest  of  our 
investment  in  life  that  we  can  sanely  contribute  to 

230 


BEULAH'S   PROBLEM 

the  cause  of  living.  Our  capital  strength  and 
energy  must  be  used  for  the  struggle  for  existence 
itself  if  we  are  to  have  a  world  of  balanced  indi- 
viduals. There  is  an  arrogance  involved  in 
assuming  ourselves  more  humane  than  human  that 
reacts  insidiously  on  our  health  and  morals.  Peter, 
looking  into  the  twitching  hectic  face  before  him 
with  the  telltale  glint  of  mania  in  the  eyes,  felt 
.himself  becoming  helpless  with  pity  for  a  mind 
gone  so  far  askew.  He  felt  curiously  responsible 
for  Beulah's  condition. 

"She  wouldn't  have  run  herself  so  far  aground," 
he  thought,  "if  I  had  been  on  the  job  a  little  more. 
I  could  have  helped  her  to  steer  straighten  A  word 
here  and  a  lift  there  and  she  would  have  come 
through  all  right.  Now  something's  got  to  stop 
her  or  she  can't  be  stopped.  She'll  preach  once 
too  often  out  of  the  tail  of  a  cart  on  the  subject 
of  equal  guardianship, — and — " 

Beulah  put  her  hands  to  her  face  suddenly,  and, 
sinking  back  into  the  depths  of  the  big  cushioned 
chair  on  the  edge  of  which  she  had  been  tensely 
poised  during  most  of  the  conversation,  burst  into 
tears. 

"You're  the  only  one  that  knows,"  she  sobbed 

231 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

over  and  over  again.  "I'm  so  tired,  Peter,  but 
I've  got  to  go  on  and  on  and  on.  If  they  stop  me, 
I'll  kill  myself." 

Peter  crossed  the  room  to  her  side  and  sat  down 
on  her  chair-arm. 

"Don't  cry,  dear,"  he  said,  with  a  hand  on  her 
head.  "You're  too  tired  to  think  things  out  now, — 
but  I'll  help  you." 

She  lifted  a  piteous  face,  for  the  moment  so 
startlingly  like  that  of  the  dead  girl  he  had  loved 
that  his  senses  were  confused  by  the  resemblance. 

"How,  Peter?"  she  asked.  "How  can  you  help 
me?" 

"I  think  I  see  the  way,"  he  said  slowly. 

He  slipped  to  his  knees  and  gathered  her  close 
in  his  arms. 

"I  think  this  will  be  the  way,  dear,"  he  said  very 
gently. 

"Does  this  mean  that  you  want  me  to  marry 
you?"  she  whispered,  when  she  was  calmer. 

"If  you  will,  dear,"  he  said.    "Will  you?" 

"I  will, — if  I  can,  if  I  can  make  it  seem  right 
to  after  I've  thought  it  all  out. — Oh !  Peter,  I  love 
you.  I  love  you.'* 

"I  had  no  idea  of  that,"  he  said  gravely,  "but 

232 


BEULAH'S   PROBLEM 

it's  wonderful  that  you  do.  I'll  put  everything 
I've  got  into  trying  to  make  you  happy,  Beulah." 

"I  know  you  will,  Peter."  Her  arms  closed 
around  his  neck  and  tightened  there.  "I  love  you." 

He  made  her  comfortable  and  she  relaxed  like  a 
tired  child,  almost  asleep  under  his  soothing  hand, 
and  the  quiet  spell  of  his  tenderness. 

"I  didn't  know  it  could  be  like  this,"  she  whis- 
pered. 

"But  it  can,"  he  answered  her. 

In  his  heart  he  was  saying,  "This  is  best.  I  am 
sure  this  is  best.  It  is  the  right  and  normal  way 
for  her — and  for  me." 

In  her  tri-cornered  dormitory  room  at  the  new 
school  which  she  was  not  sharing  with  any  one  this 
year  Eleanor,  enveloped  in  a  big  brown  and  yellow 
wadded  bathrobe,  was  writing  a  letter  to  Peter. 
Her  hair  hung  in  two  golden  brown  braids  over 
her  shoulders  and  her  pure  profile  was  bent  in- 
tently over  the  paper.  At  the  moment  when  Beulah 
made  her  confession  of  love  and  closed  her  eyes 
against  the  breast  of  the  man  who  had  just  asked 
her  to  marry  him,  two  big  tears  forced  their  way 
between  Eleanor's  lids  and  splashed  down  upon  her 
letter. 


233 


CHAPTER  XIX 
MOSTLY  UNCLE  PETER 

4  4  "pv  EAR  UNCLE  PETER,"  the  letter  ran, 
M*J  "I  am  very,  very  homesick  and  lonely  for 
you  to-day.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  would  gladly  give 
a  whole  year  of  my  life  just  for  the  privilege  of 
being  with  you,  and  talking  instead  of  writing, — 
but  since  that  can  not  be,  I  am  going  to  try  and 
write  you  about  the  thing  that  is  troubling  me.  I 
can't  bear  it  alone  any  longer,  and  still  I  don't  know 
whether  it  is  the  kind  of  thing  that  it  is  honorable 
to  tell  or  not.  So  you  see  I  am  very  much  troubled 
and  puzzled,  and  this  trouble  involves  some  one 
else  in  a  way  that  it  is  terrible  to  think  of. 

"Uncle  Peter,  dear,  I  do  not  want  to  be  mar- 
ried. Not  until  I  have  grown  up,  and  seen  some- 
thing of  the  world.  You  know  it  is  one  of  my 
dearest  wishes  to  be  self-supporting,  not  because  I 
am  a  Feminist  or  a  new  woman,  or  have  'the  un- 
natural belief  of  an  antipathy  to  man'  that  you're 
always  talking  about,  but  just  because  it  will  prove 
to  me  once  and  for  all  that  I  belong  to  myself,  and 
that  my  soul  isn't,  and  never  has  been  cooperative. 

234 


MOSTLY  UNCLE  PETER 

You  know  what  I  mean  by  this,  and  you  are  not 
hurt  by  my  feeling  so.  You,  I  am  sure,  would  not 
want  me  to  be  married,  or  to  have  to  think  of  my- 
self as  engaged,  especially  not  to  anybody  that  we 
all  knew  and  loved,  and  who  is  very  close  to  me 
and  you  in  quite  another  way.  Please  don't  try  to 
imagine  what  I  mean,  Uncle  Peter — even  if  you 
know,  you  must  tell  yourself  that  you  don't  know. 
Please,  please  pretend  even  to  yourself  that  I 
haven't  written  you  this  letter.  I  know  people  do 
tell  things  like  this,  but  I  don't  know  quite  how 
they  bring  themselves  to  do  it,  even  if  they  have 
somebody  like  you  who  understands  everything — 
everything. 

"Uncle  Peter,  dear,  I  am  supposed  to  be  going 
to  be  married  by  and  by  when  the  one  who  wants 
it  feels  that  it  can  be  spoken  of,  and  until  that 
happens,  I've  got  to  wait  for  him  to  speak,  unless  I 
can  find  some  way  to  tell  him  that  I  do  not  want  it 
ever  to  be.  I  don't  know  how  to  tell  him.  I  don't 
know  how  to  make  him  feel  that  I  do  not  belong 
to  him.  It  is  only  myself  I  belong  to,  and  I  belong 
to  you,  but  I  don't  know  how  to  make  that  plain 
to  any  one  who  does  not  know  it  already.  I  can't 
say  it  unless  perhaps  you  can  help  me  to. 

235 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"I  am  different  from  the  other  girls.  I  know 
every  girl  always  thinks  there  is  something  differ- 
ent about  her,  but  I  think  there  are  ways  in  which 
I  truly  am  different.  When  I  want  anything  I 
know  more  clearly  what  it  is,  and  why  I  want  it 
than  most  other  girls  do,  and  not  only  that,  but  I 
know  now,  that  I  want  to  keep  myself,  and  every- 
thing I  think  and  feel  and  am, — sacred.  There  is 
an  inner  shrine  in  a  woman's  soul  that  she  must 
keep  inviolate.  I  know  that  now. 

"A  liberty  that  you  haven't  known  how,  or  had 
the  strength  to  prevent,  is  a  terrible  thing.  One 
can't  forget  it.  Uncle  Peter,  dear,  twice  in  my  life 
things  have  happened  that  drive  me  almost  desper- 
ate when  I  think  of  them.  If  these  things  should 
happen  again  when  I  know  that  I  don't  want  them 
to,  I  don't  think  there  would  be  any  way  of  my 
bearing  it.  Perhaps  y6u  can  tell  me  something 
that  will  make  me  find  a  way  out  of  this  tangle. 
I  don't  see  what  it  could  be,  but  lots  of  times  you 
have  shown  me  the  way  out  of  endless  mazes  that 
were  not  grown  up  troubles  like  this,  but  seemed 
very  real  to  me  just  the  same. 

"Uncle  Peter,  dear,  dear,  dear, — you  are  all  I 
have.  I  wish  you  were  here  to-night,  though  you 

236 


MOSTLY  UNCLE  PETER 

wouldn't  be  let  in,  even  if  you  beat  on  the  gate 
ever  so  hard,  for  it's  long  after  bedtime.  I  am  up 
in  my  tower  room  all  alone.  Oh!  answer  this 
letter.  Answer  it  quickly,  quickly." 

Eleanor  read  her  letter  over  and  addressed  a 
tear  splotched  envelope  to  Peter.  Then  she  slowly 
tore  letter  and  envelope  into  little  bits. 

"He  would  know,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I 
haven't  any  real  right  to  tell  him.  It  would  be  just 
as  bad  as  any  kind  of  tattling." 

She  began  another  letter  to  him  but  found  she 
could  not  write  without  saying  what  was  in  her 
heart,  and  so  went  to  bed  uncomforted.  There 
was  nothing  in  her  experience  to  help  her  in  her 
relation  to  David.  His  kiss  on  her  lips  had  taught 
her  the  nature  of  such  kisses :  had  made  her  under- 
stand suddenly  the  ease  with  which  the  strange, 
sweet  spell  of  sex  is  cast.  She  related  it  to  the 
episode  of  the  unwelcome  caress  bestowed  upon 
her  by  the  brother  of  Maggie  Lou,  and  that  half 
forgotten  incident  took  on  an  almost  terrible  sig- 
nificance. She  understood  now  how  she  should 
have  repelled  that  unconscionable  boy,  but  that 
understanding  did  not  help  her  with  the  problem 

237 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

of  her  Uncle  David.  Though  the  thought  of  it 
thrilled  through  her  with  a  strange  incredible 
delight,  she  did  not  want  another  kiss  of  his  upon 
her  lips. 

"It's — it's — like  that,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I 
want  it  to  be  from  somebody — else.  Somebody 
realer  to  me.  Somebody  that  would  make  it  seem 
right."  But  even  to  herself  she  mentioned  no 
names. 

She  had  definitely  decided  against  going  to  col- 
lege. She  felt  that  she  must  get  upon  her  own 
feet  quickly  and  be  under  no  obligation  to  any  man. 
Vaguely  her  stern  New  England  rearing  was  be- 
ginning to  indicate  the  way  that  she  should  tread. 
No  man  or  woman  who  did  not  understand  "the 
value  of  a  dollar,"  was  properly  equipped  to  do 
battle  with  the  realities  of  life.  The  value  of  a 
dollar,  and  a  clear  title  to  it — these  were  the  prin- 
ciples upon  which  her  integrity  must  be  founded 
if  she  were  to  survive  her  own  self-respect.  Her 
Puritan  fathers  had  bestowed  this  heritage  upon 
her.  She  had  always  felt  the  irregularity  of  her 
economic  position;  now  that  the  complication  of 
her  relation  with  David  had  arisen,  it  was  begin- 
ning to  make  her  truly  uncomfortable. 

238 


MOSTLY  UNCLE  PETER 

David  had  been  very  considerate  of  her,  but  his 
consideration  frightened  her.  He  had  been  so 
afraid  that  she  might  be  hurt  or  troubled  by  his 
attitude  toward  her  that  he  had  explained  again, 
and  almost  in  so  many  words  that  he  was  only 
waiting  for  her  to  grow  accustomed  to  the  idea 
before  he  asked  her  to  become  his  wife.  She  had 
looked  forward  with  considerable  trepidation  to 
the  Easter  vacation  following  the  establishment  of 
their  one-sided  understanding,  but  David  relieved 
her  apprehension  by  putting  up  at  his  club  and 
leaving  her  in  undisturbed  possession  of  his  quar- 
ters. There,  with  Mademoiselle  still  treating  her 
as  a  little  girl,  and  the  other  five  of  her  hetero- 
geneous foster  family  to  pet  and  divert  her  at 
intervals,  she  soon  began  to  feel  her  life  swing 
back  into  a  more  accustomed  and  normal  per- 
spective. David's  attitude  to  her  was  as  simple  as 
ever,  and  when  she  was  with  the  devoted  sextet 
she  was  almost  able  to  forget  the  matter  that  was 
at  issue  between  them — almost  but  not  quite. 

She  took  quite  a  new  kind  of  delight  in  her 
association  with  the  group.  She  found  herself  sud- 
denly on  terms  of  grown  up  equality  with  them. 
Her  consciousness  of  the  fact  that  David  was 


239 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

tacitly  waiting  for  her  to  become  a  woman,  had 
made  a  woman  of  her  already,  and  she  looked  on 
her  guardians  with  the  eyes  of  a  woman,  even 
though  a  very  newly  fledged  and  timorous  one. 

She  was  a  trifle  self-conscious  with  the  others, 
but  with  Jimmie  she  was  soon  on  her  old  familiar 
footing. 

"Uncle  Jimmie  is  still  a  great  deal  of  fun,"  she 
wrote  in  her  diary.  "He  does  just  the  same  old 
things  he  used  to  do  with  me,  and  a  good  many 
new  ones  in  addition.  He  brings  me  flowers,  and 
gets  me  taxi-cabs  as  if  I  were  really  a  grown  up 
young  lady,  and  he  pinches  my  nose  and  teases  me 
as  if  I  were  still  the  little  girl  that  kept  house  in 
a  studio  for  him.  I  never  realized  before  what  a 
good-looking  man  he  is.  I  used  to  think  that 
Uncle  Peter  was  the  only  handsome  man  of  the 
three,  but  now  I  realize  that  they  are  all  excep- 
tionally good-looking.  Uncle  David  has  a  great 
deal  of  distinction,  of  course,  but  Uncle  Jimmie 
is  merry  and  radiant  and  vital,  and  tall  and  ath- 
letic looking  into  the  bargain.  The  ladies  on  the 
Avenue  all  turn  to  look  at  him  when  we  go  walk- 
ing. He  says  that  the  gentlemen  all  turn  to  look 

240 


MOSTLY  UNCLE  PETER 

at  me,  and  I  think  perhaps  they  do  when  I  have 
my  best  clothes  on,  but  in  my  school  clothes  I  am 
quite  certain  that  nothing  like  that  happens. 

"I  have  been  out  with  Uncle  Jimmie  Tuesday 
and  Wednesday  and  Thursday  and  Friday, — four 
days  of  my  vacation.  We've  been  to  the  Hippo- 
drome and  Chinatown,  and  we've  dined  at  Sherry's, 
and  one  night  we  went  down  to  the  little  Italian 
restaurant  where  I  had  my  first  introduction  to 
eau  rougie,  and  was  so  distressed  about  it.  I 
shall  never  forget  that  night,  and  I  don't  think 
Uncle  Jimmie  will  ever  be  done  teasing  me  about 
it.  It  is  nice  to  be  with  Uncle  Jimmie  so  much, 
but  I  never  seem  to  see  Uncle  Peter  any  more. 
Alphonse  is  very  careful  about  taking  messages,  I 
know,  but  it  does  seem  to  me  that  Uncle  Peter 
must  have  telephoned  more  times  than  I  know  of. 
It  does  seem  as  if  he  would,  at  least,  try  to  see 
me  long  enough  to  have  one  of  our  old  time  talks 
again.  To  see  him  with  all  the  others  about  is 
only  a  very  little  better  than  not  seeing  him  at  all. 
He  isn't  like  himself,  someway.  There  is  a  shadow 
over  him  that  I  do  not  understand." 

"Don't  you  think  that  Uncle  Peter  has  changed?" 
241 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

she  asked  Jimmie,  when  the  need  of  speaking  of 
him  became  too  strong  to  withstand. 

"He  is  a  little  pale  about  the  ears,"  Jimmie  con- 
ceded, "but  I  think  that's  the  result  of  hard  work 
and  not  enough  exercise.  He  spends  all  his  spare 
time  trying  to  patch  up  Beulah  instead  of  tramping 
and  getting  out  on  his  horse  the  way  he  used  to. 
He's  doing  a  good  job  on  the  old  dear,  but  it's 
some  job,  nevertheless  and  notwithstanding — " 

"Is  Aunt  Beulah  feeling  better  than  she  was?" 
Eleanor's  lips  were  dry,  but  she  did  her  best  to 
make  her  voice  sound  natural.  It  seemed  strange 
that  Jimmie  could  speak  so  casually  of  a  condition 
of  affairs  that  made  her  very  heart  stand  still.  "I 
didn't  know  that  Uncle  Peter  had  been  taking 
care  of  her." 

"Taking  care  of  her  isn't  a  circumstance  to 
what  Peter  has  been  doing  for  Beulah.  You  know 
she  hasn't  been  right  for  some  time.  She  got 
burning  wrong,  like  the  flame  on  our  old  gas 
stove  in  the  studio  when  there  was  air  in  it." 

"Uncle  David  thought  so  the  last  time  I  was 
here,"  Eleanor  said,  "but  I  didn't  know  that 
Uncle  Peter—" 


242 


MOSTLY  UNCLE  PETER 

"Peter,  curiously  enough,  was  the  last  one  to 
tumble.  Dave  and  I  got  alarmed  about  the  girl 
and  held  a  consultation,  with  the  result  that  Doctor 
Gramercy  was  called.  If  we'd  believed  he  would 
go  into  it  quite  so  heavily  we  might  have  thought 
again  before  we  sicked  him  on.  It's  very  nice 
for  Mary  Ann,  but  rather  tough  on  Abraham  as 
they  said  when  the  lady  was  deposited  on  that 
already  overcrowded  bosom.  Now  Beulah's  got 
suffrage  mania,  and  Peter's  got  Beulah  mania,  and 
it's  a  merry  mess  all  around." 

"Is  Uncle  Peter  with  her  a  lot?" 

"Every  minute.  You  haven't  seen  much  of  him 
since  you  came,  have  you? — Well,  the  reason  is 
that  every  afternoon  as  soon  as  he  can  get  away 
from  the  office,  he  puts  on  a  broad  sash  marked 
'Votes  for  Women,'  and  trundles  Beulah  around 
in  her  little  white  and  green  perambulator,  trying 
to  distract  her  mind  from  suffrage  while  he  talks 
to  her  gently  and  persuasively  upon  the  subject. 
Suffrage  is  the  only  subject  on  her  mind,  he  ex- 
plains, so  all  he  can  do  is  to  try  to  cuckoo  gently 
under  it  day  by  day.  It's  a  very  complicated  pro- 
cess but  he's  making  headway." 

243 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  Eleanor  said  faintly.  "How 
— how  is  Aunt  Gertrude?  I  don't  see  her  very 
often,  either." 

"Gertrude's  all  right."  It  was  Jimmie's  turn  to 
look  self-conscious.  "She  never  has  time  for  me 
any  more;  I'm  not  high-brow  enough  for  her. 
She's  getting  on  like  a  streak,  you  know,  exhibiting 
everywhere." 

"I  know  she  is.  She  gave  me  a  cast  of  her 
faun's  head.  I  think  it  is  lovely.  Aunt  Margaret 
looks  well." 

"She  is,  I  guess,  but  don't  let's  waste  all  our 
valuable  time  talking  about  the  family.  Let's  talk 
about  us — you  and  me.  You  ask  me  how  I'm 
feeling  and  then  I'll  tell  you.  Then  I'll  ask  you 
how  you're  feeling  and  you'll  tell  me.  Then 
I'll  tell  you  how  I  imagine  you  must  be  feeling 
from  the  way  you're  looking, — and  that  will  give 
me  a  chance  to  expatiate  on  the  delectability  of 
your  appearance.  I'll  work  up  delicately  to  the 
point  where  you  will  begin  to  compare  me  favor- 
ably with  all  the  other  nice  young  men  you  know, — 
and  then  we'll  be  off." 

"Shall  we?"  Eleanor  asked,  beginning  to  sparkle 
a  little. 


244 


MOSTLY  UNCLE  PETER 

"We  shall  indeed,"  he  assured  her  solemnly. 
"You  begin.  No,  on  second  thoughts,  I'll  begin. 
I'll  begin  at  the  place  where  I  start  telling  you 
how  excessively  well  you're  looking.  I  don't  know, 
considering  its  source,  whether  it  would  interest 
you  or  not,  but  you  have  the  biggest  blue  eyes  that 
I've  ever  seen  in  all  my  life, — and  I'm  rather  a 
judge  of  them." 

"All  the  better  to  eat  you  with,  my  dear," 
Eleanor  chanted. 

"Quite  correct."  He  shot  her  a  queer  glance 
from  under  his  eyebrows.  "I  don't  feel  very  safe 
when  I  look  into  them,  my  child.  It  would  be  a 
funny  joke  on  me  if  they  did  prove  fatal  to  me, 
wouldn't  it? — well, — but  away  with  such  nonsense. 
I  mustn't  blither  to  the  very  babe  whose  cradle  I 
am  rocking,  must  I?" 

"I'm  not  a  babe,  Uncle  Jimmie.  I  feel  very  old 
sometimes.  Older  than  any  of  you." 

"Oh !  you  are,  you  are.  You're  a  regular  sphinx 
sometimes.  Peter  says  that  you  even  disconcert 
him  at  times,  when  you  take  to  remembering  things 
out  of  your  previous  experience." 

"  'When  he  was  a  King  in  Babylon  and  I  was  a 
Christian  Slave  ?'  "  she  quoted  quickly. 

245 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"Exactly.  Only  I'd  prefer  to  play  the  part  of  the 
King  of  Babylon,  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you,  niecelet. 
How  does  the  rest  of  it  go,  'yet  not  for  a — '  some- 
thing or  other  'would  I  wish  undone  that  deed 
beyond  the  grave.'  Gosh,  my  dear,  if  things  were 
otherwise,  I  think  I  could  understand  how  that 
feller  felt.  Get  on  your  hat,  and  let's  get  out  into 
the  open.  My  soul  is  cramped  with  big  potentiali- 
ties this  afternoon.  I  wish  you  hadn't  grown  up, 
Eleanor.  You  are  taking  my  breath  away  in  a 
peculiar  manner.  No  man  likes  to  have  his  breath 
taken  away  so  suddint  like.  Let's  get  out  into  the 
rolling  prairie  of  Central  Park." 

But  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  was  rather  a  fail- 
ure. The  Park  had  that  peculiar  bleakness  that 
foreruns  the  first  promise  of  spring.  The  children, 
that  six  weeks  before  were  playing  in  the  snow  and 
six  weeks  later  would  be  searching  the  turf  for 
dandelions,  were  in  the  listless  between  seasons 
state  of  comparative  inactivity.  There  was  a  de- 
ceptive balminess  in  the  air  that  seemed  merely  to 
overlay  a  penetrating  chilliness. 

"I'm  sorry  I'm  not  more  entertaining  this  after- 
noon," Jimmie  apologized  on  the  way  home.  "It 
isn't  that  I  am  not  happy,  or  that  I  don't  feel  the 

246 


MOSTLY  UNCLE  PETER 

occasion  to  be  more  than  ordinarily  propitious; 
I'm  silent  upon  a  peak  in  Darien, — that's  all." 

"I  was  thinking  of  something  else,  too,"  Elea- 
nor said. 

"I  didn't  say  I  was  thinking  of  something  else." 

"People  are  always  thinking  of  something  else 
when  they  aren't  talking  to  each  other,  aren't 
they?" 

"Something  else,  or  each  other,  Eleanor.  I 
wasn't  thinking  of  something  else,  I  was  think- 
ing— well,  I  won't  tell  you  exactly — at  present.  A 
penny  for  your  thoughts,  little  one." 

"They  aren't  worth  it." 

"A  penny  is  a  good  deal  of  money.  You  can 
buy  joy  for  a  penny." 

"I'm  afraid  I  couldn't — buy  joy,  even  if  you 
gave  me  your  penny,  Uncle  Jimmie." 

"You  might  try.  My  penny  might  not  be  like 
other  pennies.  On  the  other  hand,  your  thoughts 
might  be  worth  a  fortune  to  me." 

"I'm  afraid  they  wouldn't  be  worth  anything  to 
anybody." 

"You  simply  don't  know  what  I  am  capable  of 
jnaking  out  of  them." 

"I  wish  I  could  make  something  out  of  them," 

247 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

Eleanor  said  so  miserably  that  Jimmie  was  filled 
with  compunction  for  having  tired  her  out,  and 
hailed  a  passing  taxi  in  which  to  whiz  her  home 
again. 

"I  have  found  out  that  Uncle  Peter  is  spending 
all  his  time  with  Aunt  Beulah,"  she  wrote  in  her 
diary  that  evening.  "It  is  beautiful  of  him  to  try 
to  help  her  through  this  period  of  nervous  col- 
lapse, and  just  like  him,  but  I  don't  understand 
why  it  is  that  he  doesn't  come  and  tell  me  about 
it,  especially  since  he  is  getting  so  tired.  He  ought 
to  know  that  I  love  him  so  dearly  and  deeply  that 
I  could  help  him  even  in  helping  her.  It  isn't  like 
him  not  to  share  his  anxieties  with  me.  Aunt 
Beulah  is  a  grown  up  woman,  and  has  friends  and 
doctors  and  nurses,  and  every  one  knows  her  need. 
It  seems  to  me  that  he  might  think  that  I  have  no 
one  but  him,  and  that  whatever  might  lie  heavy 
on  my  heart  I  could  only  confide  in  him.  I  have 
always  told  him  everything.  Why  doesn't  it  occur 
to  him  that  I  might  have  something  to  tell  him 
now?  Why  doesn't  he  come  to  me? 

"I  am  afraid  he  will  get  sick.  He  needs  a  good 
deal  of  exercise  to  keep  in  form.  If  he  doesn't 

248 


MOSTLY  UNCLE  PETER 

have  a  certain  amount  of  muscular  activity  his 
digestion  is  not  so  good.  There  are  two  little 
creases  between  his  eyes  that  I  never  remember 
seeing  there  before.  I  asked  him  the  other  night 
when  he  was  here  with  Aunt  Beulah  if  his  head 
ached,  and  he  said  'no/  but  Aunt  Beulah  said  her 
head  ached  almost  all  the  time.  Of  course,  Aunt 
Beulah  is  important,  and  if  Uncle  Peter  is  trying 
to  bring  her  back  to  normality  again  she  is  im- 
portant to  him,  and  that  makes  her  important  to 
me  for  his  sake  also,  but  nobody  in  the  world  is 
worth  the  sacrifice  of  Uncle  Peter.  Nobody,  no- 
body. 

"I  suppose  it's  a  part  of  his  great  beauty  that 
he  should  think  so  disparagingly  of  himself.  I 
might  not  love  him  so  well  if  he  knew  just  how 
dear  and  sweet  and  great  his  personality  is.  It 
isn't  so  much  what  he  says  or  does,  or  even  the 
way  he  looks  that  constitutes  his  charm,  it's  the 
simple  power  and  radiance  behind  his  slightest 
move.  Oh!  I  can't  express  it.  He  doesn't  think 
he  is  especially  fine  or  beautiful.  He  doesn't  know 
what  a  waste  it  is  when  he  spends  his  strength 
upon  somebody  who  isn't  as  noble  in  character  as 
he  is, — but  I  know,  and  it  makes  me  wild  to  think 

249 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

of  it.  Oh!  why  doesn't  he  come  to  me?  My 
vacation  is  almost  over,  and  I  don't  see  how  I 
could  bear  going  back  to  school  without  one  com- 
forting hour  of  him  alone. 

"I  intended  to  write  a  detailed  account  of  my 
vacation,  but  I  can  not.  Uncle  Jimmie  has  certainly 
tried  to  make  me  happy.  He  is  so  funny  and  dear. 
I  could  have  so  much  fun  with  him  if  I  were  not 
worried  about  Uncle  Peter! 

"Uncle  David  says  he  wants  to  spend  my  last 
evening  with  me.  We  are  going  to  dine  here,  and 
then  go  to  the  theater  together.  I  am  going  to 
try  to  tell  him  how  I  feel  about  things,  but  I  am 
afraid  he  won't  give  me  the  chance.  Life  is  a 
strange  mixture  of  things  you  want  and  can't  have, 
and  things  you  can  have  ancf  don't  want.  It  seems 
almost  disloyal  to  put  that  down  on  paper  about 
Uncle  David.  I  do  want  him  and  love  him,  but 
oh ! — not  in  that  way.  Not  in  that  way.  There  is 
only  one  person  in  a  woman's  life  that  she  can 
feel  that  way  about.  Why — why — why  doesn't 
my  Uncle  Peter  come  to  me?" 


CHAPTER  XX 
THE  MAKINGS  OF  A  TRIPLE  WEDDING 

4  4  TUST  by  way  of  formality,"  David  said, 
*J  "and  not  because  I  think  any  one  pres- 
ent"'— he  smiled  on  the  five  friends  grouped  about 
his  dinner  table — "still  takes  our  old  resolution 
seriously,  I  should  like  to  be  released  from  the 
anti-matrimonial  pledge  that  I  signed  eight  years 
ago  this  November.  I  have  no  announcement  to 
make  as  yet,  but  when  I  do  wish  to  make  an  an- 
nouncement— and  I  trust  to  have  the  permission 
granted  very  shortly — I  want  to  be  sure  of  my 
technical  right  to  do  so." 

"Gosh  all  Hemlocks!"  Jimmie  exclaimed  in  a 
tone  of  such  genuine  confusion  that  it  raised  a 
shout  of  laughter.  "I  never  thought  of  that." 

"Nor  I,"  said  Peter.  "I  never  signed  any  pledge 
to  that  effect." 

"We  left  you  out  of  it,  Old  Horse,  regarding 
you  as  a  congenital  celibate  anyway,"  Jimmie 
answered. 

251 


JURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"Some  day  soon  you  will  understand  how  much 
you  wronged  me,"  Peter  said  with  a  covert  glance 
at  Beulah. 

"I  wish  I  could  say  as  much,"  Jimmie  sighed, 
"since  this  is  the  hour  of  confession  I  don't  mind 
adding  that  I  hope  I  may  be  able  to  soon." 

Gertrude  clapped  her  hands  softly. 

"Wonderful,  wonderful!"  she  cried.  "We've 
the  makings  of  a  triple  wedding  in  our  midst. 
Look  into  the  blushing  faces  before  us  and  hear  the 
voice  that  breathed  o'er  Eden  echoing  in  our  ears. 
This  is  the  most  exciting  moment  of  my  life! 
Girls,  get  on  your  feet  and  drink  to  the  health  of 
these  about-to-be  Benedicts.  Up  in  your  chairs, — 
one  slipper  on  the  table.  Now !" — and  the  moment 
was  saved. 

Gertrude  had  seen  Margaret's  sudden  pallor  and 
heard  the  convulsive  catching  of  her  breath, — 
Margaret  rising  Undine-like  out  of  a  filmy,  pale 
green  frock,  with  her  eyes  set  a  little  more  deeply 
in  the  shadows  than  usual.  Her  quick  instinct  to 
the  rescue  was  her  own  salvation. 

David  was  on  his  feet. 

"On  behalf  of  my  coadjutors,"  he  said,  "I  thank 
you.  All  this  is  extremely  premature  for  me,  and 

252 


THE  MAKINGS  OF  A  TRIPLE  WEDDING 


I  imagine  from  the  confusion  of  the  other  gentle- 
men present  it  is  as  much,  if  not  more  so,  for 
them.  Personally  I  regret  exceedingly  being  un- 
able to  take  you  more  fully  into  my  confidence. 
The  only  reason  for  this  partial  revelation  is  that 
I  wished  to  be  sure  that  I  was  honorably  released 
from  my  oath  of  abstinence.  Hang  it  all!  You 
fellows  say  something,"  he  concluded,  sinking 
abruptly  into  his  chair. 

"Your  style  always  was  distinctly  mid-Victo- 
rian," Jimmie  murmured.  "I've  got  nothing  to 
say,  except  that  I  wish  I  had  something  to  say  and 
that  if  I  do  have  something  to  say  in  the  near 
future  I'll  create  a  real  sensation!  When  Miss 
Van  Astorbilt  permits  David  to  link  her  name  with 
his  in  the  caption  under  a  double  column  cut  in 
our  leading  journals,  you'll  get  nothing  like  the 
thrill  that  I  expect  to  create  with  my  modest  an- 
nouncement. I've  got  a  real  romance  up  my 
sleeve." 

"So've  I,  Jimmie.  There  is  no  Van  Astorbilt 
in  mine." 

"Some  simple  bar-maid  then?  A  misalliance  in 
our  midst.  Now  about  you,  Peter?" 

"The    lady   won't    give    me   her   permission   to 

253 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

speak,"  Peter  said.  "She  knows  how  proud  and 
happy  I  shall  be  when  I  am  able  to  do  so." 

Beulah  looked  up  suddenly. 

"It  is  better  we  should  marry,"  she  said.  "I 
didn't  realize  that  when  I  exacted  that  oath  from 
you.  It  is  from  the  intellectual  type  that  the 
brains  to  carry  on  the  great  work  of  the  world 
must  be  inherited." 

"I  pass,"  Jimmie  murmured.  "Where's  the  doc- 
ument we  signed?" 

"I've  got  it.  I'll  destroy  it  to-night  and  then  we 
may  all  consider  ourselves  free  to  take  any  step 
that  we  see  fit.  It  was  really  only  as  a  further 
protection  to  Eleanor  that  we  signed  it." 

"Eleanor  will  be  surprised,  won't  she?"  Gertrude 
suggested.  Three  self-conscious  masculine  faces 
met  her  innocent  interrogation. 

"Eleanor"  Margaret  breathed,  "Eleanor" 

"I  rather  think  she  will,"  Jimmie  chuckled  irre- 
sistibly, but  David  said  nothing,  and  Peter  stared 
unseeingly  into  the  glass  he  was  still  twirling  on 
its  stem. 

"Eleanor  will  be  taken  care  of  just  the  same," 
Beulah  said  decisively.  "I  don't  think  we  need 
even  go  through  the  formality  of  a  vote  on  that." 

254 


THE  MAKINGS  OF  A  TRIPLE  WEDDING 

"Eleanor  will  be  taken  care  of,"  David  said 
softly. 

The  Hutchinsons'  limousine — old  Grandmother 
Hutchinson  had  a  motor  nowadays — was  calling 
for  Margaret,  and  she  was  to  take  the  two  other 
girls  home.  David  and  Jimmie — such  is  the  nature 
of  men — were  disappointed  in  not  being  able  to 
take  Margaret  and  Gertrude  respectively  under 
their  accustomed  protection. 

"I  wanted  to  talk  to  you,  Gertrude,"  Jimmie  said 
reproachfully  as  she  slipped  away  from  his  ingra- 
tiating hand  on  her  arm. 

"I  thought  I  should  take  you  home  to-night, 
Margaret,"  David  said;  "you  never  gave  me  the 
slip  before." 

"The  old  order  changeth,"  Gertrude  replied 
lightly  to  them  both,  as  she  preceded  Margaret 
into  the  luxurious  interior. 

"It's  Eleanor,"  Gertrude  announced  as  the  big 
car  swung  into  Fifth  Avenue. 

"Which  is  Eleanor?"  Margaret  cried  hysterically. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Beulah  asked. 

"Jimmie  or  David — or — or  both  are  going  to 
marry  Eleanor.  Didn't  you  see  their  faces  when 
Beulah  spoke  of  her?" 

255 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"David  wants  to  marry  Eleanor,"  Margaret  said 
quietly.  "I've  known  it  all  winter — without  real- 
izing what  it  was  I  knew." 

"Well,  who  is  Jimmy  going  to  marry  then?" 
Beulah  inquired. 

"Who  is  Peter  going  to  marry  for  that  matter?" 
Gertrude  cut  in.  "Oh!  it  doesn't  make  any  differ- 
ence,— we're  losing  them  just  the  same." 

"Not  necessarily,"  Beulah  said.  "No  matter 
what  combinations  come  about,  we  shall  still  have 
an  indestructible  friendship." 

"Indestructible  friendship — shucks,"  Gertrude 
cried.  "The  boys  are  going  to  be  married — married 
— married !  Marriage  is  the  one  thing  that  indestruc- 
tible friendships  don't  survive — except  as  ghosts." 

"It  should  be  Peter  who  is  going  to  marry 
Eleanor,"  Margaret  said.  "It's  Peter  who  has 
always  loved  her  best.  It's  Peter  she  cares  for." 

"As  a  friend,"  Beulah  said,  "as  her  dearest 
friend." 

"Not  as  a  friend,"  Margaret  answered  softly, 
"she  loves  him.  She  has  always  loved  him.  It 
comes  early  sometimes." 

"I  don't  believe  it.     I  simply  don't  believe  it." 

"I  believe  it,"  Gertrude  said.    "I  hadn't  thought 

256 


THE  MAKINGS  OF  A  TRIPLE  WEDDING 

of  it  before.  Of  course,  it  must  be  Peter  who  is 
going  to  marry  her." 

"If  it  isn't  we've  succeeded  in  working  out  a 
rather  tragic  experiment,"  Margaret  said,  "haven't 
we?" 

"Life  is  a  tragic  experiment  for  any  woman," 
Gertrude  said  sententiously. 

"Peter  doesn't  intend  to  marry  Eleanor,"  Beulah 
persisted.  "I  happen  to  know." 

"Do  you  happen  to  know  who  he  is  going  to 
marry?" 

"Yes,  I  do  know,  but  I— I  can't  tell  you  yet." 

"Whoever  it  is,  it's  a  mistake,"  Margaret  said. 
"It's  our  little  Eleanor  he  wants.  I  suppose  he 
doesn't  realize  it  himself  yet,  and  when  he  does 
it  will  be  too  late.  He's  probably  gone  and  tied 
himself  up  with  somebody  entirely  unsuitable, 
hasn't  he,  Beulah?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Beulah  said;  "perhaps  he  has. 
I  hadn't  thought  of  it  that  way." 

"It's  the  way  to  think  of  it,  I  know."  Margaret's 
eyes  filled  with  sudden  tears.  "But  whatever  he's 
done  it's  past  mending  now.  There'll  be  no  ques- 
tion of  Peter's  backing  out  of  a  bargain — bad  or 
good,  and  our  poor  little  kiddie's  got  to  suffer." 

257 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"Beulah  took  it  hard,"  Gertrude  commented,  as 
they  turned  up-town  again  after  dropping  their 
friend  at  her  door.  The  two  girls  were  spending 
the  night  together  at  Margaret's.  "I  wonder  on 
what  grounds.  I  think  besides  being  devoted  to 
Eleanor,  she  feels  terrifically  responsible  for  her. 
She  isn't  quite  herself  again  either." 

"She  is  almost,  thanks  to  Peter." 

"But — oh!  I  can't  pretend  to  think  of  anything 
else, — who — who— who — are  our  boys  going  to 
marry?" 

"I  don't  know,  Gertrude." 

"But  you  care?" 

"It's  a  blow." 

"I  always  thought  that  you  and  David — " 

Margaret  met  her  eyes  bravely  but  she  did  not 
answer  the  implicit  question. 

"I  always  thought  that  you  and  Jimmie — "  she 
said  presently.  "Oh!  Gertrude,  you  would  have 
been  so  good  for  him." 

"Oh!  it's  all  over  now,"  Gertrude  said,  "but  I 
didn't  know  that  a  living  soul  suspected  me." 

"I've  known  for  a  long  time." 

"Are  you  really  hurt,  dear?"  Gertrude  whispered 
as  they  clung  to  each  other. 

258 


THE  MAKINGS  OF  A  TRIPLE  WEDDING 

"Not  really.  It  could  have  been — that's  all.  He 
could  have  made  me  care.  I've  never  seen  any  one 
else  whom  I  thought  that  of.  I — I  was  so  used  to 
him." 

"That's  the  rub,"  Gertrude  said,  "we're  so  used 
to  them.  They're  so — so  preposterously  necessary 
to  us." 

Late  that  night  clasped  in  each  other's  arms 
they  admitted  the  extent  of  their  desolation.  Life 
had  been  robbed  of  a  magic, — a  mystery.  The 
solid  friendship  of  years  of  mutual  trust  and  un- 
derstanding was  the  background  of  so  much  lovely 
folly,  so  many  unrealized  possibilities,  so  many 
nebulous  desires  and  dreams  that  the  sudden  dis- 
solution of  their  circle  was  an  unthinkable  ca- 
lamity. 

"We  ought  to  have  put  out  our  hands  and  taken 
them  if  we  wanted  them,"  Gertrude  said,  out  of 
the  darkness.  "Other  women  do.  Probably  these 
other  women  have.  Men  are  helpless  creatures. 
They  need  to  be  firmly  turned  in  the  right  direc- 
tion instead  of  being  given  their  heads.  We've 
been  too  good  to  our  boys.  We  ought  to  have 
snitched  them." 

"I  wouldn't  pay  that  price  for  love,"  Margaret 

259 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

said.  "I  couldn't.  By  the  time  I  had  made  it 
happen  I  wouldn't  want  it." 

"That's  my  trouble  too,"  Gertrude  said.  Then 
she  turned  over  on  her  pillow  and  sobbed  help- 
lessly. "Jimmie  had  such  ducky  little  curls,"  she 
explained  incoherently.  "I  do  this  sometimes 
when  I  think  of  them.  Otherwise,  I'm  not  a  cry- 
ing woman." 

Margaret  put  out  a  hand  to  her;  but  long  after 
Gertrude's  breath  began  to  rise  and  fall  regularly, 
she  lay  staring  wide-eyed  into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
ELEANOR  HEARS  THE  NEWS 

4  4  J-X  EAR  UNCLE  JIMMIE : 

M^J  "I  said  I  would  write  you,  but  now  that 
I  have  taken  this  hour  in  which  to  do  it,  I  find  it 
is  a  very,  very  hard  letter  that  I  have  got  to  write. 
In  the  first  place  I  can't  believe  that  the  things 
you  said  to  me  that  night  were  real,  or  that  you 
were  awake  and  in  the  world  of  realities  when  you 
said  them.  I  felt  as  if  we  were  both  dreaming; 
that  you  were  talking  as  a  man  does  sometimes  in 
delirium  when  he  believes  the  woman  he  loves  to 
be  by  his  side,  and  I  was  listening  the  same  way. 
It  made  me  very  happy,  as  dreams  sometimes  do. 
I  can't  help  feeling  that  your  idea  of  me  is  a  dream 
idea,  and  the  pain  that  you  said  this  kind  of  a 
letter  would  give  you  will  be  merely  dream  pain. 
It  is  a  shock  to  wake  up  in  the  morning  and  find 
that  all  the  lovely  ways  we  felt,  and  delicately 
beautiful  things  we  had,  were  only  dream  things 
that  we  wouldn't  even  understand  if  we  were 
thoroughly  awake. 

261 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"In  the  second  place,  you  can't  want  to  marry 
your  little  niecelet,  the  funny  little  'kiddo,'  that  used 
to  burn  her  fingers  and  the  beefsteak  over  that  old 
studio  gas  stove.  We  had  such  lovely  kinds  of 
make-believe  together.  That's  what  our  associa- 
tion always  ought  to  mean  to  us, — just  chumship, 
and  wonderful  and  preposterous  pretends.  I 
couldn't  think  of  myself  being  married  to  you  any 
more  than  I  could  Jack  the  giant  killer,  or  Robin- 
son Crusoe.  You're  my  truly  best  and  dearest 
childhood's  playmate,  and  that  is  a  great  deal  to 
be,  Uncle  Jimmie.  I  don't  think  a  little  girl  ever 
grows  up  quite  whole  unless  she  has  somewhere, 
somehow,  what  I  had  in  you.  You  wouldn't  want 
to  marry  Alice  in  Wonderland,  now  would  you? 
There  are  some  kinds  of  playmates  that  can't 
marry  each  other.  I  think  that  you  and  I  are  that 
kind,  Uncle  Jimmie. 

"My  dear,  my  dear,  don't  let  this  hurt  you. 
How  can  it  hurt  you,  when  I  am  only  your  little 
adopted  foster  child  that  you  have  helped  support 
and  comfort  and  make  a  beautiful,  glad  life  for? 
I  love  you  so  much, — you  are  so  precious  to  me 
that  you  must  wake  up  out  of  this  distorted,  though 
lovely  dream  that  I  was  present  at! 

262 


ELEANOR  HEARS  THE  NEWS 

"We  must  all  be  happy.  Nobody  can  break  our 
hearts  if  we  are  strong  enough  to  withhold  them. 
Nobody  can  hurt  us  too  much  if  we  can  find  the 
way  to  be  our  bravest  all  the  time.  I  know  that 
what  you  are  feeling  now  is  not  real.  I  can't  tell 
you  how  I  know,  but  I  do  know  the  difference. 
The  roots  are  not  deep  enough.  They  could  be 
pulled  up  without  too  terrible  a  havoc. 

"Uncle  Jimmie,  dear,  believe  me,  believe  me.  I 
said  this  would  be  a  hard  letter  to  write,  and  it  has 
been.  If  you  could  see  my  poor  inkstained,  weeping 
face,  you  would  realize  that  I  am  only  your  funny 
little  Eleanor  after  all,  and  not  to  be  taken  seriously 
at  all.  I  hope  you  will  come  up  for  my  graduation. 
WThen  you  see  me  with  all  the  other  lumps  and 
frumps  that  are  here,  you  will  know  that  I  am 
not  worth  considering  except  as  a  kind  of  human 
joke. 

"Good-by,  dear,  my  dear,  and  God  bless  you. 

"Eleanor." 

It  was  less  than  a  week  after  this  letter  to  Jim- 
mie that  Margaret  spending  a  week-end  in  a  town 
in  Connecticut  adjoining  that  in  which  Eleanor's 
school  was  located,  telephoned  Eleanor  to  join  her 

263 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

overnight  at  the  inn  where  she  was  staying.  She 
had  really  planned  the  entire  expedition  for  the 
purpose  of  seeing  Eleanor  and  preparing  her  for 
the  revelations  that  were  in  store  for  her,  though 
she  was  ostensibly  meeting  a  motoring  party,  with 
which  she  was  going  on  into  the  Berkshires. 

She  started  in  abruptly,  as  was  her  way,  over 
the  salad  and  cheese  in  the  low  studded  Arts  and 
Crafts  dining-room  of  the  fashionable  road  house, 
contrived  to  look  as  self-conscious  as  a  pretty 
woman  in  new  sporting  clothes. 

"Your  Uncle  David  and  your  Uncle  Jimmie  are 
going  to  be  married,"  she  told  her.  "Did  you 
know  it,  Eleanor?" 

"No,  I  didn't,"  Eleanor  said  faintly,  but  she 
grew  suddenly  very  white. 

"Aren't  you  surprised,  dear?    David  gave  a  din- 
ner party  one  night  last  week  in  his  studio,  and 
announced  his  intentions,  but  we  don't  know  the 
name  of  the  lady  yet,  and  we  can't  guess  it.     He 
says  it  is  not  a  society  girl." 
"Who  do  you  think  it  is?" 
"Who  do  you  think  it  is,  Eleanor?" 
"I — I  can't  think,  Aunt  Margaret." 
"We  don't  know  who  Jimmie  is  marrying  either. 

264 


ELEANOR  HEARS  THE  NEWS 

The  facts  were  merely  insinuated,  but  he  said  we 
should  have  the  shock  of  our  lives  when  we  knew." 

"When  did  he  tell  you?" 

"A  week  ago  last  Wednesday.  I  haven't  seen 
him  since." 

"Perhaps  he  has  changed  his  mind  by  now," 
Eleanor  said. 

"I  don't  think  that's  likely.  They  were  both 
very  much  in  earnest.  Aren't  you  surprised,  Elea- 
nor?" 

"I — I  don't  know.  Don't  you  think  it  might  be 
that  they  both  just  thought  they  were  going  to 
marry  somebody — that  really  doesn't  want  to 
marry  them  ?  It  might  be  all  a  mistake,  you  know." 

"I  don't  think  it's  a  mistake.  David  doesn't 
make  mistakes." 

"He  might  make  one,"  Eleanor  persisted. 

Margaret  found  the  rest  of  her  story  harder  to 
tell  than  she  had  anticipated.  Eleanor,  wrapped 
in  the  formidable  aloofness  of  the  sensitive  young, 
was  already  suffering  from  the  tale  she  had  come 
to  tell, — why,  it  was  not  so  easy  to  determine.  It 
might  be  merely  from  the  pang  of  being  shut  out 
from  confidences  that  she  felt  should  have  been 
shared  with  her  at  once. 


265 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

She  waited  until  they  were  both  ready  for  bed 
(their  rooms  were  connecting) — Eleanor  in  the 
straight  folds  of  her  white  dimity  nightgown,  and 
her  two  golden  braids  making  a  picture  that  lin- 
gered in  Margaret's  memory  for  many  years.  "It 
would  have  been  easier  to  tell  her  in  her  street 
clothes,"  she  thought.  "I  wish  her  profile  were 
not  so  perfect,  or  her  eyes  were  shallower.  How 
can  I  hurt  such  a  lovely  thing?" 

"Are  the  ten  Hutchinsons  all  right.''"  Eleanor 
was  asking. 

"The  ten  Hutchinsons  are  very  much  all  right. 
They  like  me  better  now  that  I  have  grown  a  nice 
hard  Hutchinson  shell  that  doesn't  show  my  feel- 
ings through.  Haven't  you  noticed  how  much 
more  like  other  people  I've  grown,  Eleanor?" 

"You've  grown  nicer,  and  dearer  and  sweeter, 
but  I  don't  think  you're  very  much  like  anybody 
else,  Aunt  Margaret." 

"I  have  though, — every  one  notices  it.  You 
haven't  asked  me  anything  about  Peter  yet,"  she 
added  suddenly. 

The  lovely  color  glowed  in  Eleanor's  cheeks  for 
an  instant. 


266 


ELEANOR  HEARS  THE  NEWS 

"Is — is  Uncle  Peter  well?"  she  asked.  "I  haven't 
heard  from  him  for  a  long  time." 

"Yes,  he's  well,"  Margaret  said.  "He's  looking 
better  than  he  was  for  a  while.  He  had  some  news 
to  tell  us  too,  Eleanor." 

Eleanor  put  her  hand  to  her  throat. 

"What  kind  of  news?"  she  asked  huskily. 

"He's  going  to  be  married  too.  It  came  out 
when  the  others  told  us.  He  said  that  he  hadn't 
the  consent  of  the  lady  to  mention  her  name  yet. 
We're  as  much  puzzled  about  him  as  we  are  about 
the  other  two." 

"It's  Aunt  Beulah,"  Eleanor  said.  "It's  Aunt 
Beulah." 

She  sat  upright  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and 
stared  straight  ahead  of  her.  Margaret  watched 
the  light  and  life  and  youth  die  out  of  the  face 
and  a  pitiful  ashen  pallor  overspread  it. 

"I  don't  think  it's  Beulah,"  Margaret  said. 
"Beulah  knows  who  it  is,  but  I  never  thought  of 
it's  being  Beulah  herself." 

"If  she  knows — then  she's  the  one.  He  wouldn't 
have  told  her  first  if  she  hadn't  been." 

"Don't  let  it  hurt  you  too  much,  dear.     We're 

267 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

all  hurt  some,  you  know.  Gertrude — and  me,  too, 
Eleanor.  It's — it's  pain  to  us  all." 

"Do  you  mean — Uncle  David,  Aunt  Margaret?" 

"Yes,  dear,"  Margaret  smiled  at  her  bravely. 

"And  does  Aunt  Gertrude  care  about  Uncle 
Jimmie  ?" 

"She  has  for  a  good  many  years,  I  think." 

Eleanor  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"I  didn't  know  that,"  she  said.  "I  wish  some- 
body had  told  me."  She  pushed  Margaret's  arm 
away  from  her  gently,  but  her  breath  came  hard. 
"Don't  touch  me,"  she  cried,  "I  can't  bear  it.  You 
might  not  want  to — if  you  knew.  Please  go, — 
oh!  please  go — oh!  please  go." 

As  Margaret  closed  the  door  gently  between 
them,  she  saw  Eleanor  throw  her  head  back,  and 
push  the  back  of  her  hand  hard  against  her  mouth, 
as  if  to  stifle  the  rising  cry  of  her  anguish. 

The  next  morning  Eleanor  was  gone.  Margaret 
had  listened  for  hours  in  the  night  but  had  heard 
not  so  much  as  the  rustle  of  a  garment  from  the 
room  beyond.  Toward  morning  she  had  fallen 
into  the  sleep  of  exhaustion.  It  was  then  that  the 
stricken  child  had  made  her  escape.  "Miss  Ham- 
lin  had  found  that  she  must  take  the  early  train," 

268 


'I  wish  somebody  had  told  me,"  she  said,  stifling  the  rising  cry  of 
her  anguish 


ELEANOR  HEARS  THE  NEWS 

the  clerk  said,  "and  left  this  note  for  Miss  Hutch- 
inson."  It  was  like  Eleanor  to  do  things  decently 
and  in  order. 

"Dear  Aunt  Margaret,"  her  letter  ran.  "My 
grandmother  used  to  say  that  some  people  were 
trouble  breeders.  On  thinking  it  over  I  am  afraid 
that  is  just  about  what  I  am, — a  trouble  breeder. 

"I've  been  a  worry  and  bother  and  care  to  you 
all  since  the  beginning,  and  I  have  repaid  all  your 
kindness  by  bringing  trouble  upon  you.  Perhaps 
you  can  guess  what  I  mean.  I  don't  think  I  have 
any  right  to  tell  you  exactly  in  this  letter.  I  can 
only  pray  that  it  will  be  found  to  be  all  a  mistake, 
and  come  out  right  in  the  end.  Surely  such  beauti- 
ful people  as  you  and  Uncle  David  can  find  the 
way  to  each  other,  and  can  help  Uncle  Jimmie  and 
Aunt  Gertrude,  who  are  a  little  blinder  about  life. 
Surely,  when  the  stumbling  block  is  out  of  the 
way,  you  four  will  walk  together  beautifully. 
Please  try,  Aunt  Margaret,  to  make  things  as  right 
as  if  I  had  never  helped  them  to  go  wrong.  I  was 
so  young,  I  didn't  know  how  to  manage.  I  shall 
never  be  that  kind  of  young  again.  I  grew  up 
last  night,  Aunt  Margaret. 

269 


.TURN  ABOUT,  ELEANOR 

"You  know  the  other  reason  why  I  am  going. 
Please  do  not  let  any  one  else  know.  If  the  others 
could  think  I  had  met  with  some  accident,  don't 
you  think  that  would  be  the  wisest  way?  I  would 
like  to  arrange  it  so  they  wouldn't  try  to  find  me 
at  all,  but  would  just  mourn  for  me  naturally  for 
a  little  while.  I  thought  of  sticking  my  old  cap 
in  the  river,  but  I  was  afraid  that  would  be  too 
hard  for  you.  There  won't  be  any  use  in  trying 
to  find  me.  I  am  going  where  you  can  not.  I 
couldn't  ever  bear  seeing  one  of  your  faces  again. 
I  have  done  too  much  harm.  Don't  let  Uncle 
Peter  know,  please,  Aunt  Margaret.  I  don't  want 
him  to  know, — I  don't  want  to  hurt  him,  and  I 
don't  want  him  to  know. 

"Oh!  I  have  loved  you  all  so  much.  Good-by, 
my  dears,  my  dearests.  I  have  taken  all  of  my 
allowance  money.  Please  forgive  me. 

"Eleanor." 


CHAPTER  XXII 
THE  SEARCH 

ELEANOR  had  not  bought  a  ticket  at  the  sta- 
tion, Margaret  ascertained,  but  the  ticket 
agent  had  tried  to  persuade  her  to.  She  had 
thanked  him  and  told  him  that  she  preferred  to  buy 
it  of  the  conductor.  He  was  a  lank,  saturnine 
individual  and  had  been  seriously  smitten  with 
Eleanor's  charms,  it  appeared,  and  the  extreme 
solicitousness  of  his  attitude  at  the  suggestion  of 
any  mystery  connected  with  her  departure  made 
Margaret  realize  the  caution  with  which  it  would 
be  politic  to  proceed.  She  had  very  little  hope  of 
finding  Eleanor  back  at  the  school,  but  it  was  still 
rather  a  shock  when  she  telephoned  the  school 
office  and  found  that  there  was  no  news  of  her 
there.  She  concocted  a  somewhat  lame  story  to 
account  for  Eleanor's  absence  and  promised  the 
authorities  that  she  would  be  sent  back  to  them 
within  the  week, — a  promise  she  was  subsequently 
obliged  to  acknowledge  that  she  could  not  keep. 
Then  she  fled  to  New  York  to  break  the  disastrous 
news  to  the  others. 


271 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

She  told  Gertrude  the  truth  and  showed  her  the 
pitiful  letter  Eleanor  had  left  behind  her,  and  to- 
gether they  wept  over  it.  Also  together,  they 
faced  David  and  Jimmie. 

"She  went  away,"  Margaret  told  them,  "both 
because  she  felt  she  was  hurting  those  that  she 
loved  and  because  she  herself  was  hurt." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  David  asked. 

"I  mean — that  she  belonged  body  and  soul  to 
Peter  and  to  nobody  else,"  Margaret  answered 
deliberately. 

David  bowed  his  head.  Then  he  threw  it  back 
again,  suddenly. 

"If  that  is  true,"  he  said,  "then  I  am  largely 
responsible  for  her  going." 

"It  is  I  who  am  responsible,"  Jimmie  groaned 
aloud.  "I  asked  her  to  marry  me  and  she  refused 
me." 

"I  asked  her  to  marry  me  and  didn't  give  her 
the  chance  to  refuse,"  David  said;  "it  is  that  she 
is  running  away  from." 

"It  was  Peter's  engagement  that  was  the  last 
straw,"  Margaret  said.  "The  poor  baby  withered 
and  shrank  like  a  flower  in  the  blast  when  I  told 
her  that." 


272 


THE  SEARCH 

"The  damned  hound — "  Jimmie  said  feelingly 
and  without  apology.  "Who's  he  engaged  to  any- 
way?" 

"Eleanor  says  it's  Beulah,  and  the  more  I  think 
of  it  the  more  I  think  that  she's  probably  right." 

"That  would  be  a  nice  mess,  wouldn't  it?"  Ger- 
trude suggested.  "Remember  how  frank  we  were 
with  her  about  his  probable  lack  of  judgment,  Mar- 
garet? I  don't  covet  the  sweet  job  of  breaking 
it  to  either  one  of  them." 

Nevertheless  she  assisted  Margaret  to  break  it 
to  them  both  late  that  same  afternoon  at  Beulah's 
apartment. 

"I'll  find  her,"  Peter  said  briefly.  And  in  re- 
sponse to  the  halting  explanation  of  her  disappear- 
ance that  Margaret  and  Gertrude  had  done  their 
best  to  try  to  make  plausible,  despite  its  elliptical 
nature,  he  only  said,  "I  don't  see  that  it  makes  any 
difference  why  she's  gone.  She's  gone,  that's  the 
thing  that's  important.  No  matter  how  hard  we 
try  we  can't  really  figure  out  her  reason  till  we 
find  her." 

"Are  you  sure  it's  going  to  be  so  easy?"  Ger- 
trude asked.  "I  mean — finding  her.  She's  a  pretty 
determined  little  person  when  she  makes  up  her 

273 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

mind.  Eleanor's  threats  are  to  be  taken  seriously. 
She  always  makes  good  on  them." 

"I'll  find  her  if  she's  anywhere  in  the  world," 
Peter  said.  "I'll  find  her  and  bring  her  back." 

Margaret  put  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"I  believe  that  you  will,"  she  said.  "Find  out 
the  reason  that  she  went  away,  too,  Peter." 

Beulah  pulled  Gertrude  aside. 

"It  wasn't  Peter,  was  it?"  she  asked  piteously. 
"She  had  some  one  else  on  her  mind,  hadn't  she?" 

"She  had  something  else  on  her  mind,"  Gertrude 
answered  gravely,  "but  she  had  Peter  on  her  mind, 
too." 

"She  didn't — she  couldn't  have  known  about 
us — Peter  and  me.  We — we  haven't  told  any  one." 

"She  guessed  it,  Beulah.  She  couldn't  bear  it. 
Nobody's  to  blame.  It's  just  one  of  God's  most 
satirical  mix-ups." 

"I  was  to  blame,"  Beulah  said  slowly.  "I  don't 
believe  in  shifting  responsibility.  I  got  her  here 
in  the  first  place  and  I've  been  instrumental  in 
guiding  her  life  ever  since.  Now,  I've  sacrificed 
her  to  my  own  happiness." 

"It  isn't  so  simple  as  that,"  Gertrude  said;  "the 
things  we  start  going  soon  pass  out  of  our  hands. 

274 


THE  SEARCH 

Somebody  a  good  deal  higher  up  has  been  directing 
Eleanor's  affairs  for  a  long  time, — and  ours  too, 
for  that  matter." 

"Don't  worry,  Beulah,"  Peter  said,  making  his 
way  to  her  side  from  the  other  corner  of  the  room 
where  he  had  been  talking  to  Margaret.  "You 
mustn't  let  this  worry  you.  We've  all  got  to  be — 
soldiers  now, — but  we'll  soon  have  her  back  again, 
I  promise  you." 

"And  I  promise  you,"  Beulah  said  chokingly, 
"that  if  you'll  get  her  back  again,  I — I  will  be  a 
soldier." 

Peter  began  by  visiting  the  business  schools  in 
New  York  and  finding  out  the  names  of  the  pupils 
registered  there.  Eleanor  had  clung  firmly  to  her 
idea  of  becoming  an  editorial  stenographer  in  some 
magazine  office,  no  matter  how  hard  he  had  worked 
to  dissuade  her.  He  felt  almost  certain  she  would 
follow  out  that  purpose  now.  There  was  a  fund 
in  her  name  started  some  years  before  for  the 
defraying  of  her  college  expenses.  She  would  use 
that,  he  argued,  to  get  herself  started,  even  though 
she  felt  constrained  to  pay  it  back  later  on.  He 
worked  on  this  theory  for  some  time,  even  making 

275 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

a  trip  to  Boston  in  search  for  her  in  the  stenog- 
raphy classes  there,  but  nothing  came  of  it. 

Among  Eleanor's  effects  sent  on  from  the  school 
was  a  little  red  address  book  containing  the  names 
and  addresses  of  many  of  her  former  schoolmates 
at  Harmon.  Peter  wrote  all  the  girls  he  remem- 
bered hearing  her  speak  affectionately  of,  but  not 
one  of  them  was  able  to  give  him  any  news  of  her. 
He  wrote  to  Colhassett  to  Albertina's  aunt,  who  had 
served  in  the  capacity  of  housekeeper  to  Eleanor's 
grandfather  in  his  last  days,  and  got  in  reply  a 
pious  letter  from  Albertina  herself,  who  intimated 
that  she  had  always  suspected  that  Eleanor  would 
come  to  some  bad  end,  and  that  now  she  was 
highly  soothed  and  gratified  by  the  apparent  ful- 
fillment of  her  sinister  prognostications. 

Later  he  tried  private  detectives,  and,  not  con- 
tent with  their  efforts,  he  followed  them  over  the 
ground  that  they  covered,  searching  through  board- 
ing houses,  and  public  classes  of  all  kinds ;  canvass- 
ing the  editorial  offices  of  the  various  magazines 
Eleanor  had  admired  in  the  hope  of  discovering 
that  she  had  applied  for  some  small  position  there; 
following  every  clue  that  his  imagination,  and  the 

276 


THE  SEARCH 

acumen  of  the  professionals  in  his  service,  could 
supply; — but  his  patient  starch  was  unrewarded. 
Eleanor  had  apparently  vanished  from  the  surface 
of  the  earth.  The  quest  which  had  seemed  to  him 
so  simple  a  matter  when  he  first  undertook  it,  now 
began  to  assume  terrible  and  abortive  proportions. 
It  was  unthinkable  that  one  little  slip  of  a  girl 
untraveled  and  inexperienced  should  be  able  per- 
manently to  elude  six  determined  and  worldly 
adult  New  Yorkers,  who  were  prepared  to  tax 
their  resources  to  the  utmost  in  the  effort  to  find 
her, — but  the  fact  remained  that  she  was  missing 
and  continued  to  be  missing,  and  the  cruel  month 
went  by  and  brought  them  no  news  of  her. 

The  six  guardians  took  their  trouble  hard.  Apart 
from  the  emotions  that  had  been  precipitated  by 
her  developing  charms,  they  loved  her  dearly  as 
the  child  they  had  taken  to  their  hearts  and  be- 
stowed all  their  young  enthusiasm  and  energy  and 
tenderness  upon.  She  was  the  living  clay,  as  Ger- 
trude had  said  so  many  years  before,  that  they 
had  molded  as  nearly  as  possible  to  their  hearts' 
desire.  They  loved  her  for  herself,  but  one  and 
all  they  loved  her  for  what  they  had  made  of 

277 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

her — an  exquisite,  lovely  young  creature,  at  ease 
in  a  world  that  might  so  easily  have  crushed  her 
utterly  if  they  had  not  intervened  for  her. 

They  kept  up  the  search  unremittingly,  following 
false  leads  and  meeting  with  heartbreaking  dis- 
couragements and  disappointments.  Only  Mar- 
garet had  any  sense  of  peace  about  her. 

"I'm  sure  she's  all  right,"  she  said;  "I  feel  it. 
It's  hard  having  her  gone,  but  I'm  not  afraid  for 
her.  She'll  work  it  out  better  than  we  could  help 
her  to.  It's  a  beautiful  thing  to  be  young  and 
strong  and  free,  and  she'll  get  the  beauty  out  of 
it" 

"I  think  perhaps  you're  right,  Margaret,"  David 
said.  "You  almost  always  are.  It's  the  bread  and 
butter  end  of  the  problem  that  worries  me." 

Margaret  smiled  at  him  quaintly. 

"The  Lord  provides,"  she  said.  "He'll  provide 
for  our  ewe  lamb,  I'm  sure." 

"You  speak  as  if  you  had  it  on  direct  authority." 

"I  think  perhaps  I  have,"  she  said  gravely. 

Jimmie  and  Gertrude  grew  closer  together  as 
the  weeks  passed,  and  the  strain  of  their  fruitless 
quest  continued.  One  day  Jimmie  showed  her  the 
letter  that  Eleanor  had  written  him. 


278 


THE  SEARCH 

"Sweet,  isn't  she?"  he  said,  as  Gertrude  returned 
it  to  him,  smiling  through  her  tears. 

"She's  a  darling,"  Gertrude  said  fervently.  "Did 
she  hurt  you  so  much,  Jimmie  dear?" 

"I  wanted  her,"  Jimmie  answered  slowly,  "but 
I  think  it  was  because  I  thought  she  was  mine, — 
that  I  could  make  her  mine.  When  I  found  she 
was  Peter's, — had  been  Peter's  all  the  time,  the 
thought  somehow  cured  me.  She  was  dead  right, 
you  know.  I  made  it  up  out  of  the  stuff  that 
dreams  are  made  of.  God  knows  I  love  her,  but — 
but  that  personal  thing  has  gone  out  of  it.  She's 
my  little  lost  child, — or  my  sister.  A  man  wants 
his  own  to  be  his  own,  Gertrude." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"My — my  real  trouble  is  that  I'm  at  sea  again. 
I  thought  that  I  cared, — that  I  was  anchored  for 
good.  It's  the  drifting  that  plays  the  deuce  with 
me.  If  the  thought  of  that  sweet  child  and  the 
grief  at  her  loss  can't  hold  me,  what  can?  What 
hope  is  there  for  me?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Gertrude  laughed. 

"Don't  laugh  at  me.  You've  always  been  on  to 
me,  Gertrude,  too  much  so  to  have  any  respect  for 
me,  I  guess.  You've  got  your  work,"  he  waved 

279 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

his  arm  at  the  huge  cast  under  the  shadow  of 
which  they  were  sitting,  "and  all  this.  You  can 
put  all  your  human  longings  into  it.  I'm  a  poor 
rudderless  creature  without  any  hope  or  direction." 
He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  "You  don't  know 
it,"  he  said,  with  an  effort  to  conceal  the  fact  that 
his  shoulders  were  shaking,  "but  you  see  before 
you  a  human  soul  in  the  actual  process  of  disso- 
lution." 

Gertrude  crossed  her  studio  floor  to  kneel  down 
beside  him.  She  drew  the  boyish  head,  rumpled 
into  an  irresistible  state  of  curliness,  to  her  breast. 

"Put  it  here  where  it  belongs,"  she  said  softly. 

"Do  you  mean  it?"  he  whispered.  "Sure  thing? 
Hope  to  die?  Cross  your  heart?" 

"Yes,  my  dear." 

"Praise  the  Lord." 

"I  snitched  him,"  Gertrude  confided  to  Margaret 
some  days  later, — her  whole  being  radiant  and 
transfigured  with  happiness.  "You  snitch  David." 


CHAPTER   XXIII 
THE  YOUNG  NURSE 

THE  local  hospital  of  the  village  of  Harmon- 
ville,  which  was  ten  miles  from  Harmon 
proper,  where  the  famous  boarding-school  for 
young  ladies  was  located,  presented  an  aspect  so 
far  from  institutional  that  but  for  the  sign  board 
tacked  modestly  to  an  elm  tree  just  beyond  the 
break  in  the  hedge  that  constituted  the  main  en- 
trance, the  gracious,  old  colonial  structure  might 
have  been  taken  for  the  private  residence  for 
which  it  had  served  so  many  years. 

It  was  a  crisp  day  in  late  September,  and  a 
pale  yellow  sun  was  spread  thin  over  the  carpet 
of  yellow  leaves  with  which  the  wide  lawn  was 
covered.  In  the  upper  corridor  of  the  west  wing, 
grouped  about  the  window-seat  with  their  em- 
broidery or  knitting,  the  young  nurses  were  talk- 
ing together  in  low  tones  during  the  hour  of  the 
patients'  siestas.  The  two  graduates,  dark-eyed 
efficient  girls,  with  skilled  delicate  fingers  taking 
precise  stitches  in  the  needlework  before  them, 

281 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

were  in  full  uniform,  but  the  younger  girls  clus- 
tered about  them,  beginners  for  the  most  part,  but 
a  few  months  in  training,  were  dressed  in  the 
simple^  blue  print,  and  little  white  caps  and  aprons, 
of  the  probationary  period. 

The  atmosphere  was  very  quiet  and  peaceful. 
A  light  breeze  blew  in  at  the  window  and  stirred 
a  straying  lock  or  two  that  escaped  the  starched 
band  of  a  confining  cap.  Outside  the  stinging 
whistle  of  the  insect  world  was  interrupted  now 
and  then  by  the  cough  of  a  passing  motor.  From 
the  doors  opening  on  the  corridor  an  occasional 
restless  moan  indicated  the  inability  of  some  suf- 
ferer to  take  his  dose  of  oblivion  according  to 
schedule.  Presently  a  bell  tinkled  a  summons  to 
the  patient  in  the  first  room  on  the  right — a  gentle 
little  old  lady  who  had  just  had  her  appendix 
removed. 

"Will  you  take  that,  Miss  Hamlin?"  the  nurse 
in  charge  of  the  case  asked  the  tallest  and  fairest 
of  the  young  assistants. 

"Certainly."  Eleanor,  demure  in  cap  and  ker- 
chief as  the  most  ravishing  of  young  Priscillas, 
rose  obediently  at  the  request.  "May  I  read  to 
her  a  little  if  she  wants  me  to?" 


282 


THE  YOUNG  NURSE 

"Yes,  if  you  keep  the  door  closed.  I  think 
most  of  the  others  are  sleeping." 

The  little  old  lady  who  had  just  had  her  ap- 
pendix out,  smiled  weakly  up  at  Eleanor. 

"I  hoped  'twould  be  you,"  she  said,  "and  then 
after  I'd  rung  I  lay  in  fear  and  trembling  lest  one 
o'  them  young  flipperti-gibbets  should  come,  and 
get  me  all  worked  up  while  she  was  trying  to 
shift  me.  I  want  to  be  turned  the  least  little  mite 
on  my  left  side." 

"That's  better,  isn't  it?"  Eleanor  asked,  as  she 
made  the  adjustment. 

"I  dunno  whether  that's  better,  or  whether  it 
just  seems  better  to  me,  because  'twas  you  that 
fixed  me,"  the  little  old  lady  said.  "You  certainly 
have  got  a  soothin'  and  comfortin'  way  with  you." 

"I  used  to  take  care  of  my  grandmother  years 
ago,  and  the  more  hospital  work  I  do,  the  more 
it  comes  back  to  me, — and  the  better  I  remember 
the  things  that  she  liked  to  have  done  for  her." 

"There's  nobody  like  your  own  kith  and  kin," 
the  little  old  lady  sighed.  "There's  none  left  of 
mine.  That  other  nurse — that  black  haired  one — 
she  said  you  was  an  orphan,  alone  in  the  world. 
Well,  I  pity  a  young  girl  alone  in  the  world." 

283 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"It's  all  right  to  be  alone  in  the  world — if  you 
just  keep  busy  enough,"  Eleanor  said.  "But  you 
mustn't  talk  any  more.  I'm  going  to  give  you 
your  medicine  and  then  sit  here  and  read  to  you." 

On  the  morning  of  her  flight  from  the  inn, 
after  a  night  spent  staring  motionless  into  the 
.darkness,  Eleanor  took  the  train  to  the  town  some 
dozen  miles  beyond  Harmonville,  where  her  old 
friend  Bertha  Stephens  lived.  To  "Stevie,"  to 
whom  the  duplicity  of  Maggie  Lou  had  served  to 
draw  her  very  close  in  the  ensuing  year,  she  told 
a  part  of  her  story.  It  was  through  the  influence 
of  Mrs.  Stephens,  whose  husband  was  on  the 
board  of  directors  of  the  Harmonville  hospital, 
that  Eleanor  had  been  admitted  there.  She  had 
resolutely  put  all  her  old  life  behind  her.  The 
plan  to  take  up  a  course  in  stenography  and  enter 
an  editorial  office  was  to  have  been,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  a  part  of  her  life  closely  associated  with 
Peter.  Losing  him,  there  was  nothing  left  of  her 
dream  of  high  adventure  and  conquest.  There  was 
merely  the  hurt  desire  to  hide  herself  where  she 
need  never  trouble  him  again,  and  where  she  could 
be  independent  and  useful.  Having  no  idea  of 

284 


THE  YOUNG  NURSE 

her  own  value  to  her  guardians,  or  the  integral 
tenderness  in  which  she  was  held,  she  sincerely 
believed  that  her  disappearance  must  have  relieved 
them  of  much  chagrin  and  embarrassment. 

Her  hospital  training  kept  her  mercifully  busy. 
She  had  the  temperament  that  finds  a.  virtue  in 
the  day's  work,  and  a  balm  in  its  mere  iterative 
quality.  Her  sympathy  ah4  intelligence  made  her 
a  good  nurse  and  her  adaptability,  combined  with 
her  loveliness,  a  general  favorite. 

She  spent  her  days  off  at  the  Stephens'  home. 
Bertha  Stephens  had  been  the  one  girl  that  Peter 
had  failed  to  write  to,  when  he  began  to  circulate 
his  letters  of  inquiry.  Her  name  had  been  set 
down  in  the  little  red  book,  but  he  remembered 
the  trouble  that  Maggie  Lou  had  precipitated,  and 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  the  intimacy  existing 
between  Eleanor  and  Bertha  had  not  survived  it. 
Except  that  Carlo  Stephens  persisted  in  trying  to 
make  love  to  her,  and  Mrs.  Stephens  covertly 
encouraged  his  doing  so,  Eleanor  found  the 
Stephens'  home  a  very  comforting  haven.  Bertha 
had  developed  into  a  full  breasted,  motherly  look- 
ing girl,  passionately  interested  in  all  vicarious 
love-affairs,  though  quickly  intimidated  at  the 

285 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

thought  of  having  any  of  her  own.     She  was  de- 
voted to  Eleanor,  and  mothered  her  clumsily. 

It  was  still  to  her  diary  that  Eleanor  turned  for 
the  relief  and  solace  of  self-expression. 

"It  is  five  months  to-day,"  she  wrote,  "since  I 
came  to  the  hospital.  It  seems  like  five  years.  I 
like  it,  but  I  feel  like  the  little  old  woman  on  the 
King's  Highway.  I  doubt  more  every  minute  if 
this  can  be  I.  Sometimes  I  wonder  what  'being  I' 
consists  of,  anyway.  I  used  to  feel  as  if  I  were 
divided  up  into  six  parts  as  separate  as  protoplas- 
mic cells,  and  that  each  one  was  looked  out  for  by 
a  different  cooperative  parent.  I  thought  that  I 
would  truly  be  I  when  I  got  them  all  together, 
and  looked  out  for  them  myself,  but  I  find  I  am 
no  more  of  an  entity  than  I  ever  was.  The  puz- 
zling question  of  'what  am  I?'  still  persists,  and  I 
am  farther  away  from  the  right  answer  than  ever. 
Would  a  sound  be  a  sound  if  there  were  no  one 
to  hear  it?  If  the  waves  of  vibration  struck  no 
human  ear,  would  the  sound  be  in  existence  at  all? 
This  is  the  problem  propounded  by  one  of  the 
nurses  yesterday. 

286 


THE  YOUNG  NURSE 

"How  much  of  us  lives  when  we  are  entirely 
shut  out  of  the  consciousness  of  those  whom  we 
love?  If  there  is  no  one  to  realize  us  day  by  day, 
— if  all  that  love  has  made  of  us  is  taken  away, 
what  is  left?  Is  there  anything?  I  don't  know. 
I  look  in  the  glass,  and  see  the  same  face, — 
Eleanor  Hamlin,  almost  nineteen,  with  the  same 
bow  shaped  eyebrows,  and  the  same  double  ridge 
leading  up  from  her  nose  to  her  mouth,  making 
her  look  still  very  babyish.  I  pinch  myself,  and 
find  that  it  hurts  just  the  same  as  it  used  to  six 
months  ago,  but  there  the  resemblance  to  what  I 
used  to  be,  stops.  I'm  a  young  nurse  now  in 
hospital  training,  and  very  good  at  it,  too,  if  I 
do  say  it  as  shouldn't;  but  that's  all  I  am.  Other- 
wise, I'm  not  anybody  to  anybody, — except  a 
figure  of  romance  to  good  old  Stevie,  who  doesn't 
count  in  this  kind  of  reckoning.  I  take  naturally 
to  nursing  they  tell  me.  A  nurse  is  a  kind  of 
maternal  automaton.  I'm  glad  I'm  that,  but  there 
used  to  be  a  lot  more  of  me  than  that.  There 
ought  to  be  some  heart  and  brain  and  soul  left 
over,  but  there  doesn't  seem  to  be.  Perhaps  I 
am  like  the  Princess  in  the  fairy  story  whose 

28? 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

heart  was  an  auk's  egg.  Nobody  had  power  to 
make  her  feel  unless  they  reached  it  and 
squeezed  it. 

"I  feel  sometimes  as  if  I  were  dead.  I  wish  I 
could  know  whether  Uncle  Peter  and  Aunt  Beulah 
were  married  yet.  I  wish  I  could  know  that. 
There  is  a  woman  in  this  hospital  whose  suitor 
married  some  one  else,  and  she  has  nervous  pros- 
tration, and  melancholia.  All  she  does  all  day  is 
to  moan  and  wring  her  hands  and  call  out  his 
name.  The  nurses  are  not  very  sympathetic.  They 
seem  to  think  that  it  is  disgraceful  to  love  a  man 
so  much  that  your  whole  life  stops  as  soon  as  he 
goes  out  of  it.  What  of  Juliet  and  Ophelia  and 
Francesca  de  Rimini?  They  loved  so  they  could 
not  tear  their  love  out  of  their  hearts  without 
lacerating  them  forever.  There  is  that  kind  of 
love  in  the  world, — bigger  than  life  itself.  All  the 
big  tragedies  of  literature  were  made  from  it, — 
why  haven't  people  more  sympathy  for  it?  Why 
isn't  there  more  dignity  about  it  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world  ? 

"It  is  very  unlucky  to  love,  and  to  lose  that 
which  you  cherish,  but  it  is  unluckier  still  never 
to  know  the  meaning  of  love,  or  tp  find  'Him 

288 


THE  YOUNG  NURSE 

whom  your  soul  loveth.'  I  try  to  be  kind  to  that 
poor  forsaken  woman.  I  am  sorry  for  his  sake 
that  she  calls  out  his  name,  but  she  seems  to  be  in 
such  torture  of  mind  and  body  that  she  is  unable 
to  help  it. 

"They  are  trying  to  cut  down  expenses  here,  so 
they  have  no  regular  cook,  the  housekeeper  and 
her  helper  are  supposed  to  do  it  all.  I  said  I 
would  make  the  desserts,  so  now  I  have  got  to  go 
down-stairs  and  make  some  fruit  gelatin.  It  is 
best  that  I  should  not  write  any  more  to-day,  any- 
way." 

Later,  after  the  Thanksgiving  holiday,  she 
wrote : 

"I  saw  a  little  boy  butchered  to-day,  and  I  shall 
never  forget  it.  It  is  wicked  to  speak  of  Doctor 
Blake's  clean  cut  work  as  butchery,  but  when  you 
actually  see  a  child's  leg  severed  from  its  body, 
what  else  can  you  call  it? 

"The  reason  that  I  am  able  to  go  through  opera- 
tions without  fainting  or  crying  is  just  this:  other 
people  do.  The  first  time  I  stood  by  the  operating 
table  to  pass  the  sterilized  instruments  to  the 
assisting  nurse,  and  saw  the  half  naked  doctors 

289 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

hung  in  rubber  standing  there  preparing  to  carve 
their  way  through  the  naked  flesh  of  the  un- 
conscious creature  before  them,  I  felt  the  kind  of 
pang  pass  through  my  heart  that  seems  to  kill  as 
it  comes.  I  thought  I  died,  or  was  dying, — and 
then  I  looked  up  and  saw  that  every  one  else  was 
ready  for  their  work.  So  I  drew  a  deep  breath 
and  became  ready  too.  I  don't  think  there  is 
anything  in  the  world  too  hard  to  do  if  you  look 
at  it  that  way. 

"The  little  boy  loved  me  and  I  loved  him.  We 
had  hoped  against  hope  that  we  would  be  able  to 
save  his  poor  little  leg,  but  it  had  to  go.  I  held 
his  hand  while  they  gave  him  the  chloroform.  At 
his  head  sat  Doctor  Hathaway  with  his  Christlike 
face,  draped  in  the  robe  of  the  anesthetist.  'Take 
long  breaths,  Benny,'  I  said,  and  he  breathed  in 
bravely.  It  was  over  quickly.  To-morrow,  when 
he  is  really  out  of  the  ether,  I  have  got  to  tell 
him  what  was  done  to  him.  Something  happened 
to  me  while  that  operation  was  going  on.  He 
hasn't  any  mother.  I  think  the  spirit  of  the  one 
who  was  his  mother  passed  into  me,  and  I  knew 
what  it  would  be  like  to  be  the  mother  of  a  son. 
Benny  was  not  without  what  his  mother  would 

290 


THE  YOUNG  NURSE 

have  felt  for  him  if  she  had  been  at  his  side.  I 
can't  explain  it,  but  that  is  what  I  felt. 

"To-night  it  is  as  black  as  ink  outside.  There 
are  no  stars.  I  feel  as  if  there  should  be  no  stars. 
If  there  were,  there  might  be  some  strange  little 
bit  of  comfort  in  them  that  I  could  cling  to.  I 
do  not  want  any  comfort  from  outside  to  shine 
upon  me  to-night.  I  have  got  to  draw  all  my 
strength  from  a  source  within,  and  I  feel  it  well- 
ing up  within  me  even  now. 

"I  wonder  if  I  have  been  selfish  to  leave  the 
people  I  love  so  long  without  any  word  of  me. 
I  think  Aunt  Gertrude  and  Aunt  Beulah  and  Aunt 
Margaret  all  had  a  mother  feeling  for  me.  I 
am  remembering  to-night  how  anxious  they  used  to 
be  for  me  to  have  warm  clothing,  and  to  keep  my 
feet  dry,  and  not  to  work  too  hard  at  school.  All 
those  things  that  I  took  as  a  matter  of  course,  I 
realize  now  were  very  significant  and  beautiful. 
If  I  had  a  child  and  did  not  know  to-night  where 
it  would  lie  down  to  sleep,  or  on  what  pillow  it 
would  put  its  head,  I  know  my  own  rest  would  be 
troubled.  I  wonder  if  I  have  caused  any  one  of 
my  dear  mothers  to  feel  like  that.  If  I  have,  it 
has  been  very  wicked  and  cruel  of  me." 

291 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
CHRISTMAS  AGAIN 

THE  ten  Hutchinsons  having  left  the  library 
entirely  alone  in  the  hour  before  dinner, 
David  and  Margaret  had  appropriated  it  and  were 
sitting  companionably  together  on  the  big  couch 
drawn  up  before  the  fireplace,  where  a  log  was 
trying  to  consume  itself  unscientifically  head  first. 

"I  would  stay  to  dinner  if  urged,"  David  sug- 
gested. 

"You  stay,"  Margaret  agreed  laconically. 

She  moved  away  from  him,  relaxing  rather 
limply  in  the  corner  of  the  couch,  with  a  hand 
dangling  over  the  farther  edge  of  it. 

"You're  an  inconsistent  being,"  David  said. 
"You  buoy  all  the  rest  of  us  up  with  your  faith  in 
the  well-being  of  our  child,  and  then  you  pine 
yourself  sick  over  her  absence." 

"It's  Christmas  coming  on.  We  always  had 
such  a  beautiful  time  on  Christmas.  It  was  so 


292 


CHRISTMAS  AGAIN 

much  fun  buying  her  presents.  It  isn't  like  Christ- 
mas at  all  with  her  gone  from  us." 

"Do  you  remember  how  crazy  she  was  over 
the  ivory  set?" 

"And  the  bracelet  watch?" 

"Do  you  remember  the  Juliet  costume?"  David's 
eyes  kindled  at  the  reminiscence.  "How  wonderful 
she  was  in  it." 

Margaret  drew  her  feet  up  on  the  couch  sud- 
denly, and  clasped  her  hands  about  her  knees. 
David  laughed. 

"I  haven't  seen  you  do  that  for  years,"  he  said. 

"What?" 

"Hump  yourself  in  that  cryptic  way." 

"Haven't  you?"  she  said.  "I  was  just  wonder- 
ing— "  but  she  stopped  herself  suddenly. 

"Wondering  what?"  David  was  watching  her 
narrowly,  and  perceiving  it,  she  flushed. 

"This  is  not  my  idea  of  an  interesting  conversa- 
tion," she  said;  "it's  getting  too  personal." 

"I  can  remember  the  time  when  you  told  me 
that  you  didn't  find  things  interesting  unless  they 
were  personal.  'I  like  things  very  personal/  you 
said — in  those  words." 

"I  did  then." 


293 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"What  has  changed  you?"  David  asked  gravely. 

"The  chill  wind  of  the  world,  I  guess;  the  most 
personal  part  of  me  is  frozen  stiff." 

"I  never  saw  a  warmer  creature  in  my  life," 
David  protested.  "On  that  same  occasion  you 
said  that  being  a  woman  was  about  like  being  a 
field  of  clover  in  an  insectless  world.  You  don't 
feel  that  way  nowadays,  surely, — at  the  rate  the 
insects  have  been  buzzing  around  you  this  winter. 
I've  counted  at  least  seven,  three  bees,  one  or  two 
beetles,  a  butterfly  and  a  worm." 

"I  didn't  know  you  paid  that  much  attention  to 
my  poor  affairs." 

"I  do,  though.  If  you  hadn't  put  your  foot 
down  firmly  on  the  worm,  I  had  every  intention 
of  doing  so." 

"Had  you?" 

"I  had." 

"On  that  occasion  to  which  you  refer  I  remem- 
ber I  also  said  that  I  had  a  queer  hunch  about 
Eleanor." 

"Margaret,  are  you  deliberately  changing  the 
subject?" 

"I  am." 


294 


CHRISTMAS  AGAIN 

"Then  I  shall  bring  the  butterfly  up  later." 

"I  said,"  Margaret  ignored  his  interruption,  "that 
I  had  the  feeling  that  she  was  going  to  be  a 
storm  center  and  bring  some  kind  of  queer  trouble 
upon  us." 

"Yes." 

"She  did,  didn't  she?" 

"I'm  not  so  sure  that's  the  way  to  put  it," 
David  said  gravely.  "We  brought  queer  trouble 
on  her." 

"She  made — you — suffer." 

"She  gave  my  vanity  the  worst  blow  it  has  ever 
had  in  its  life,"  David  corrected  her.  "Look  here, 
Margaret,  I  want  you  to  know  the  truth  about  that. 
I — I  stumbled  into  that,  you  know.  She  was  so 
sweet,  and  before  I  knew  it  I  had — I  found  myself 
in  the  attitude  of  making  love  to  her.  Well,  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  go  through  with  it.  I 
wanted  to,  of  course.  I  felt  like  Pygmalion — but 
it  was  all  potential,  unrealized — and  ass  that  I 
was,  I  assumed  that  she  would  have  no  other  idea 
in  the  matter.  I  was  going  to  marry  her  because 
I — I  had  started  things  going,  you  know.  I  had 
no  choice  even  if  I  had  wanted  one.  It  never  oc- 

295 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

curred  to  me  that  she  might  have  a  choice,  and  so 
I  went  on  trying  to  make  things  easy  for  her, 
and  getting  them  more  tangled  at  every  turn." 

"You  never  really — cared?"  Margaret's  face  was 
in  shadow. 

"Never  got  the  chance  to  find  out.  With  char- 
acteristic idiocy  I  was  keeping  out  of  the  picture 
until  the  time  was  ripe.  She  really  ran  away  to 
get  away  from  the  situation  I  created  and  she  was 
quite  right  too.  If  I  weren't  haunted  by  these 
continual  pictures  of  our  offspring  in  the  bread 
line,  I  should  be  rather  glad  than  otherwise  that 
she's  shaken  us  all  till  we  get  our  breath  back. 
Poor  Peter  is  the  one  who  is  smashed,  though.  He 
hasn't  smiled  since  she  went  away." 

"You  wouldn't  smile  if  you  were  engaged  to 
Beulah." 

"Are  they  still  engaged?" 

"Beulah  has  her  ring,  but  I  notice  she  doesn't 
wear  it  often.'* 

"Jimmie  and  Gertrude  seem  happy." 

"They  are,  gloriously." 

"That  leaves  only  us  two,"  David  suggested. 
"Margaret,  dear,  do  you  think  the  time  will  ever 
come  when  I  shall  get  you  back  again?" 

296 


CHRISTMAS  AGAIN 

Margaret  turned  a  little  pale,  but  she  met  his 
look  steadily. 

"Did  you  ever  lose  me?" 

"The  answer  to  that  is  'yes/  as  you  very  well 
know.  Time  was  when  we  were  very  close — you 
and  I,  then  somehow  we  lost  the  way  to  each 
other.  I'm  beginning  to  realize  that  it  hasn't 
been  the  same  world  since  and  isn't  likely  to  be  un- 
less you  come  back  to  me." 

"Was  it  I  who  strayed?" 

"It  was  I;  but  it  was  you  who  put  the  bars  up 
and  have  kept  them  there." 

"Was  I  to  let  the  bars  down  and  wait  at  the 
gate?" 

"If  need  be.  It  should  be  that  way  between  us, 
Margaret,  shouldn't  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Margaret  said,  "I  don't  know." 
She  flashed  a  sudden  odd  look  at  him.  "If — when 
I  put  the  bars  down,  I  shall  run  for  my  life.  I 
give  you  warning,  David." 

"Warning  is  all  I  want,"  David  said  contented- 
ly. He  could  barely  reach  her  hand  across  the  in- 
tervening expanse  of  leather  couch,  but  he  ac- 
complished it, — he  was  too  wise  to  move  closer 
to  her.  "You're  a  lovely,  lovely  being,"  he  said 

297 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

reverently.  "God  grant  I  may  reach  you  and 
hold  you." 

She  curled  a  warm  little  finger  about  his. 

"What  would  Mrs.  Boiling  say?"  she  asked 
practically. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  she  spoke  of  it  the  other 
day.  I  told  her  the  Eleanor  story,  and  that  rather 
brought  her  to  her  senses.  She  wouldn't  have 
liked  that,  you  know;  but  now  all  the  eligible  buds 
are  plucked,  and  she  wants  me  to  settle  down." 

"Does  she  think  I'm  a  settling  kind  of  person?" 

"She  wouldn't  if  she  knew  the  way  you  go  to 
my  head,"  David  murmured.  "Oh,  she  thinks 
that  you'll  do.  She  likes  the  ten  Hutchinsons." 

"Maybe  I'd  like  them  better  considered  as  con- 
nections of  yours,"  Margaret  said  abstractedly. 

David  lifted  the  warm  little  finger  to  his  lips 
and  kissed  it  swiftly. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked,  as  she  slipped 
away  from  him  and  stood  poised  in  the  doorway. 

"I'm  going  to  put  on  something  appropriate  to 
the  occasion,"  she  answered. 

When  she  came  back  to  him  she  was  wearing 
the  most  delicate  and  cobwebby  of  muslins  with  a 
design  of  pale  purple  passion  flowers  trellised  all 

298 


CHRISTMAS  AGAIN 

over  it,  and  she  gave  him  no  chance  for  a  moment 
alone  with  her  all  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

Sometime  later  she  showed  him  Eleanor's  part- 
ing letter,  and  he  was  profoundly  touched  by  the 
pathetic  little  document. 

As  the  holidays  approached  Eleanor's  absence 
became  an  almost  unendurable  distress  to  them  all. 
The  annual  Christmas  dinner  party,  a  function 
that  had  never  been  omitted  since  the  acquisition 
of  David's  studio,  was  decided  on  conditionally, 
given  up,  and  again  decided  on. 

"We  do  want  to  see  one  another  on  Christmas 
day, — we've  got  presents  for  one  another,  and 
Eleanor  would  hate  it  if  she  thought  that  her 
going  away  had  settled  that  big  a  cloud  on  us. 
She  slipped  out  of  our  lives  in  order  to  bring  us 
closer  together.  We'll  get  closer  together  for  her 
sake,"  Margaret  decided. 

But  the  ordeal  of  the  dinner  itself  was  almost 
more  than  they  had  reckoned  on.  Every  detail  of 
traditional  ceremony  was  observed  even  to  the 
mound  of  presents  marked  with  each  name  piled 
on  the  same  spot  on  the  couch,  to  be  opened  with 
the  serving  of  the  coffee. 

"I    got    something    for    Eleanor,"    Jimmie    re- 

299 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

marked  shamefacedly  as  he  added  his  contributions 
to  the  collection.  "Thought  we  could  keep  it  for 
her,  or  throw  it  into  the  waste-basket  or  some- 
thing. Anyhow  I  had  to  get  it." 

"I  guess  everybody  else  got  her  something,  too," 
Margaret  said.  "Of  course  we  will  keep  them  for 
her.  I  got  her  a  little  French  party  coat.  It  will 
be  just  as  good  next  year  as  this.  Anyhow  as 
Jimmie  says,  I  had  to  get  it." 

"I  got  her  slipper  buckles,"  Gertrude  admitted. 
"She  has  always  wanted  them." 

"I  got  her  the  Temple  Shakespeare"  Beulah 
added.  "She  was  always  carrying  around  those 
big  volumes." 

"You're  looking  better,  Beulah,"  Margaret  said. 
"Are  you  feeling  better?" 

"Jimmie  says  I'm  looking  more  human.  I 
guess  perhaps  that's  it, — I'm  feeling  more — 
human.  I  needed  humanizing — even  at  the  ex- 
pense of  some — some  heartbreak,"  she  said 
bravely. 

Margaret  crossed  the  room  to  take  a  seat  on 
Beulah's  chair-arm,  and  slipped  an  arm  around 
her. 


300 


CHRISTMAS  AGAIN 

"You're  all  right  if  you  know  that,"  she 
whispered  softly. 

"I  thought  I  was  going  to  bring  you  Eleanor 
herself,"  Peter  said.  "I  got  on  the  trail  of  a  girl 
working  in  a  candy  shop  out  in  Yonkers.  My 
faithful  sleuth  was  sure  it  was  Eleanor  and  I  was 
ass  enough  to  believe  he  knew  what  he  was  talk- 
ing about.  When  I  got  out  there  I  found  a  straw- 
berry blonde  with  gold  teeth." 

"Gosh,  you  don't  think  she's  doing  anything  like 
that,"  Jimmie  exclaimed. 

"I  don't  know,"  Peter  said  miserably.  He  was 
looking  ill  and  unlike  himself.  His  deep  set  gray 
eyes  were  sunken  far  in  his  head,  his  brow  was 
too  white,  and  the  skin  drawn  too  tightly  over  his 
jaws.  "As  a  de-tec-i-tive,  I'm  afraid  I'm  a 
failure." 

"We're  all  failures  for  that  matter,"  David  said. 
"Let's  have  dinner." 

Eleanor's  empty  place,  set  with  the  liqueur  glass 
she  always  drank  her  thimbleful  of  champagne  in, 
and  the  throne  chair  from  the  drawing-room  in 
which  she  presided  over  the  feasts  given  in  her 
honor,  was  almost  too  much  for  them.  Margaret 

301 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

cried  openly  over  her  soup.  Peter  shaded  his 
eyes  with  his  hand,  and  Gertrude  and  Jimmie 
groped  for  each  other's  hands  under  the  shelter 
of  the  table-cloth. 

"This — this  won't  do,"  David  said.  He  turned 
to  Beulah  on  his  left,  sitting  immovable,  with  her 
eyes  staring  unseeingly  into  the  centerpiece  of 
holly  and  mistletoe  arranged  by  Alphonse  so  lov- 
ingly. "We  must  either  turn  this  into  a  kind  of 
a  wake,  and  kneel  as  we  feast,  or  we  must  try  to 
rise  above  it  somehow." 

"I  don't  see  why,"  Jimmie  argued.  "I'm  in 
favor  of  each  man  howling  informally  as  he 
listeth." 

"Let's  drink  her  health  anyhow,"  David  insisted. 
"I  cut  out  the  Sauterne  and  the  claret,  so  we  could 
begin  on  the  wine  at  once  in  this  contingency. 
Here's  to  our  beloved  and  dear  absent  daughter." 

"Long  may  she  wave,"  Jimmie  cried,  stumbling 
to  his  feet  an  instant  after  the  others. 

While  they  were  still  standing  with  their  glasses 
uplifted,  the  bell  rang. 

"Don't  let  anybody  in,  Alphonse,"  David  ad- 
monished him. 

[They  all  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  hall,  but 

302 


CHRISTMAS  AGAIN 

there  was  no  sound  of  parley  at  the  front  door. 
Eleanor  had  put  a  warning  finger  to  her  lips,  as 
Alphonse  opened  it  to  find  her  standing  there.  She 
stripped  off  her  hat  and  her  coat  as  she  passed 
through  the  drawing-room,  and  stood  in  her  little 
blue  cloth  traveling  dress  between  the  portieres  that 
separated  it  from  the  dining-room.  The  six  stood 
transfixed  at  the  sight  of  her,  not  believing  the 
vision  of  their  eyes. 

"You're  drinking  my  health,"  she  cried,  as  she 
stretched  out  her  arms  to  them.  "Oh!  my  dears, 
and  my  dearests,  will  you  forgive  me  for  running 
away  from  you?" 


CHAPTER  XXV 
THE  LOVER 

THEY  left  her  alone  with  Peter  in  the  draw- 
ing room  in  the  interval  before  the  coffee, 
seeing  that  he  had  barely  spoken  to  her  though  his 
eyes  had  not  left  her  face  since  the  moment  of  her 
spectacular  appearance  between  the  portieres. 

"I'm  not  going  to  marry  you,  Peter,"  Beulah 
whispered,  as  she  slipped  by1  him  to  the  door, 
"don't  think  of  me.  Think  of  her." 

But  Peter  was  almost  past  coherent  thought  or 
speech  as  they  stood  facing  each  other  on  the 
hearth-rug, — Eleanor's  little  head  up  and  her 
breath  coming  lightly  between  her  sweet,  parted 
lips. 

"Where  did  you  go?"  Peter  groaned.  "How 
could  you,  dear — how  could  you, — how  could 
you?" 

"I'm  back  all  safe,  now,  Uncle  Peter.  I  took 
up  nursing  in  a  hospital." 

"I  didn't  even  find  you.  I  swore  that  I  would. 
I've  searched  for  you  everywhere." 

304 


THE  LOVER 

"I'm  sorry  I  made  you  all  that  trouble,"  Eleanor 
said,  "but  I  thought  it  would  be  the  best  thing 
to  do." 

"Tell  me  why,"  Peter  said,  "tell  me  why,  I've 
suffered  so  much — wondering — wondering." 

"You've  suffered?"  Eleanor  cried.  "I  thought 
it  was  only  I  who  did  the  suffering." 

She  moved  a  step  nearer  to  him,  and  Peter 
gripped  her  hard  by  the  shoulders. 

"It  wasn't  that  you  cared?"  he  said.  Then  his 
lips  met  hers  dumbly,  beseechingly. 

"It  was  all  a  mistake, — my  going  away,"  she 
wrote  some  days  after.  "I  ought  to  have  stayed 
at  the  school,  and  graduated,  and  then  come  down 
to  New  York,  and  faced  things.  I  have  my  lesson 
now  about  facing  things.  If  any  other  crisis 
comes  into  my  life,  I  hope  I  shall  be  as  strong 
as  Dante  was,  when  he  'showed  himself  more 
furnished  with  breath  than  he  was,'  and  said,  'Go 
on,  for  I  am  strong  and  resolute.'  I  think  we  al- 
ways have  more  strength  than  we  understand  our- 
selves to  have. 

"I  am  so  wonderfully  happy  about  Uncle  David 
and  Aunt  Margaret,  and  I  know  Uncle  Jimmie 

305 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

needs  Aunt  Gertrude  and  has  always  needed  her. 
Did  my  going  away  help  those  things  to  their 
fruition?  I  hope  so. 

"I  can  not  bear  to  think  of  Aunt  Beulah,  but  I 
know  that  I  must  bear  to  think  of  her,  and  face 
the  pain  of  having  hurt  her  as  I  must  face  every 
other  thing  that  comes  into  my  life  from  this 
hour.  I  would  give  her  back  Peter,  if  I  could, — 
but  I  can  not.  He  is  mine,  and  I  am  his,  and  we 
have  been  that  way  from  the  beginning.  I  have 
thought  of  him  always  as  stronger  and  wiser  than 
any  one  in  the  world,  but  I  don't  think  he  is.  He 
has  suffered  and  stumbled  along,  trying  blindly  to 
do  right,  hurting  Aunt  Beulah  and  mixing  up  his 
life  like  any  man,  just  the  way  Uncle  Jimmie  and 
Uncle  David  did. 

"Don't  men  know  who  it  is  they  love?  They 
seem  so  often  to  be  struggling  hungrily  after  the 
wrong  thing,  trying  to  get,  or  to  make  themselves 
take,  some  woman  that  they  do  not  really  want. 
When  women  love  it  is  not  like  that  with  them. 

"When  women  love !  I  think  I  have  loved  Peter 
from  the  first  minute  I  saw  him,  so  beautiful  and 
dear  and  sweet,  with  that  anxious  look  in  his 
eyes, — that  look  of  consideration  for  the  other 

306 


THE  LOVER 

person  that  is  always  so  much  a  part  of  him.  He 
had  it  the  first  night  I  saw  him,  when  Uncle  David 
brought  me  to  show  me  to  my  foster  parents  for 
the  first  time.  It  was  the  thing  I  grew  up  by,  and 
measured  men  and  their  attitude  to  women  by — 
just  that  look  in  his  eyes,  that  tender  warm  look 
of  consideration. 

"It  means  a  good  many  things,  I  think, — a 
gentle  generous  nature,  and  a  tender  chivalrous 
heart.  It  means  selflessness.  It  means  being  a 
good  man,  and  one  who  protects  by  sheer  unselfish 
instinct.  I  don't  know  how  I  shall  ever  heal  him 
of  the  hurt  he  has  done  Aunt  Beulah.  Aunt  Mar-| 
garet  tells  me  that  Aunt  Beulah's  experience  withj 
him  has  been  the  thing  that  has  made  her  whole, 
that  she  needed  to  live  through  the  human  cycle 
of  emotion — of  love  and  possession  and  renuncia-* 
tion  before  she  could  be  quite  real  and  sound, 
This  may  be  true,  but  it  is  not  the  kind  of  rea- 
soning for  Peter  and  me  to  comfort  ourselves  with. 
If  a  surgeon  makes  a  mistake  in  cutting  that  after- 
wards does  more  good  than  harm,  he  must  not 
let  that  result  absolve  him  from  his  mistake. 
Nothing  can  efface  the  mistake  itself,  and  Pete£ 
and  I  must  go  on  feeling  that  way  about  it, 

307 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

"I  want  to  write  something  down  about  my  love 
before  I  close  this  book  to-night.  Something  that 
I  can  turn  to  some  day  and  read,  or  show  to  my 
children  when  love  comes  to  them.  'This  is  the 
way  I  felt/  I  want  to  say  to  them,  'the  first  week 
of  my  love — this  is  what  it  meant  to  me.' 

"It  means  being  a  greater,  graver,  and  more 
beautiful  person  than  you  ever  thought  you  could 
be.  It  means  knowing  what  you  are,  and  what 
you  were  meant  to  be  all  at  once,  and  I  think  it 
means  your  chance  to  be  purified  for  the  life  you 
are  to  live,  and  the  things  you  are  to  do  in  it. 
Experience  teaches,  but  I  think  love  forecasts  and 
points  the  way,  and  shows  you  what  you  can  be. 
Even  if  the  light  it  sheds  should  grow  dim  after  a 
while,  the  path  it  has  shown  you  should  be  clear 
to  your  inner  eye  forever  and  ever.  Having  been 
in  a  great  temple  is  a  thing  to  be  better  for  all 
your  life. 

"It  means  that  the  soul  and  the  things  of  the 
soul  are  everlasting, — that  they  have  got  to  be 
everlasting  if  love  is  like  this.  Love  between  two 
people  is  more  than  the  simple  fact  of  their  being 
drawn  together  and  standing  hand  in  hand.  It  is 

308 


THE  LOVER 

the  holy  truth  about  the  universe.  It  is  the  rain- 
bow of  God's  promise  set  over  the  land.  There 
comes  with  it  the  soul's  certainty  of  living  on  and 
on  through  time  and  space. 

"Just  my  loving  Peter  and  Peter's  loving  me 
isn't  the  important  thing, — the  important  thing  is 
the  way  it  has  started  the  truth  going;  my  know- 
ing and  understanding  mysterious  laws  that  were 
sealed  to  me  before;  Peter  taking  my  life  in  his 
hands  and  making  it  consecrated  and  true, — so 
true  that  I  will  not  falter  or  suffer  from  any  mis- 
understandings or  mistaken  pain. 

"It  means  warmth  and  light  and  tenderness,  our 
love  does,  and  all  the  poetry  in  the  world,  and  all 
the  motherliness,  (I  feel  so  much  like  his  mother). 
Peter  is  my  lover.  When  I  say  that  he  is  not 
stronger  or  wiser  than  any  one  in  the  world  I 
mean — in  living.  I  mean  in  the  way  he  behaves 
like  a  little  bewildered  boy  sometimes.  In  loving 
he  is  stronger  and  wiser  than  any  living  being.  He 
takes  my  two  hands  in  his  and  gives  me  all  the 
strength  and  all  the  wisdom  and  virtue  there  is 
in  the  world. 

"I  haven't  written  down  anything,  after  all,  that 

309 


TURN  ABOUT  ELEANOR 

any  one  could  read.  My  children  can't  look  over 
my  shoulder  on  to  this  page,  for  they  would  not 
understand  it.  It  means  nothing  to  any  one  in  the 
world  but  me.  I  shall  have  to  translate  for  them 
or  I  shall  have  to  say  to  them,  'Children,  on  look- 
ing into  this  book,  I  find  I  can't  tell  you  what 
love  meant  to  me,  because  the  words  I  have  put 
down  would  mean  nothing  to  you.  They  were 
only  meant  to  inform  me,  whenever  I  should  turn 
back  to  them,  of  the  great  glory  and  holiness  that 
fell  upon  me  like  a  garment  when  love  came.' 

"And  if  there  should  be  any  doubt  in  my  heart 
as  to  the  reality  of  the  feeling  that  has  come  to 
them  in  their  turn,  I  should  only  have  to  turn 
their  faces  up  to  the  light,  and  look  into  their 
eyes  and  know. 

"I  shall  not  die  as  my  own  mother  did.  I  know 
that.  I  know  that  Peter  will  be  by  my  side  until 
we  both  are  old.  These  facts  are  established  in 
my  consciousness  I  hardly  know  how,  and  I  know 
that  they  are  there, — but  if  such  a  thing  could  be 
that  I  should  die  and  leave  my  little  children,  I 
would  not  be  afraid  to  leave  them  alone  in  a 
world  that  has  been  so  good  to  me,  under  the  pro- 

310 


THE  LOVER 

tection  of  a  Power  that  provided  me  with  the 
best  and  kindest  guardians  that  a  little  orphan 
ever  had.  God  bless  and  keep  them  all,  and 
make  them  happy." 

THE  END 


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